Dear Diary, DiNozzo Style
by 1Styx and Stones1
Summary: When your parents are crazy federal agents with ninja skills and dirty minds, life isn't easy. And when unhelpful guidance counselors suggest journalism as a therapeutic exercise, madness is sure to ensue. Established Tiva, told through diary entries.
1. Chapter 1

**This idea has been nagging me for a while, and today I had a rare stroke of inspiration and an even more rare stroke of motivation. Thus, this was born. So, yeah. Established Tiva. Quirky teenaged daughter who I happen to like very much. Read, review. You know the drill. **

**Disclaimer: Y'all just lost The Game!**

Dear Diary,

So let me get this straight . . . I'm supposed to _talk_ to you? Like you're a real person or something?

A real person who is made out of tree guts and a very ugly pink fuzzy cover, because apparently my guidance counselor of three years thinks that I am _that_ kind of girl?

You know what kind of girl I mean . . .

No. You don't. Because you're not a real person.

You're just a fluffy pink book, whose pages have been tarnished with decidedly unfeminine black ink. So ha.

But, honestly, what kind of guidance counselor is this guy?

He certainly looks the part - what with the geeky glasses and the crisply ironed suit.

The man even buttons all his buttons.

Like, all of them. Every single one. Even the ones that attach the collar to the shirt.

His neck must have felt very claustrophobic and scratchy in that shirt. It wasn't even good quality fabric.

It was decidedly bad quality, in fact - the kind of shirt that Daddy would never be caught dead in.

Dad is a pretty snappy dresser. Mom says he spends more money on clothes than she does.

I don't doubt it. He certainly spends more time than her in the bathroom.

He's pretty good-looking - for an old guy, anyway - so I guess the primping time pays off, even if I'm not allowed to call it that.

Dad says that DiNozzos do not 'primp.'

But, then, Dad also says that DiNozzos don't do 'shrinks.'

And yet here you are, in all your fluffy-covered glory. There is a flower decal blooming on your spine.

. . . Thou hast been defaced. I have just taken a black permanent marker to your spine, and turned your flower decal into a blossom of death.

How does that feel? Huh? Huh? Huh?

Don't look at me like that. There is absolutely nothing wrong with drawing satisfaction from the defacement of private (pink) property.

_Stop it! _

I have drawn eyes on your cover in order to scribble them into oblivion with said permanent marker.

Your pink fluff is becoming matted and blackened.

Your flower decal looks a bit like a skull now. Or an amoebic life form.

Do you think you're hard-core? Because you have an amoebic life form tattooed to your spine?

Well, you're not. Nope. It's much more hard core to have things with definite shapes tattooed to your spine. JSYK.

(JSKY means Just So You Know, by the way. In case you didn't know.

Which you didn't. Since you're not a person.)

Aunt Abby has about a zillion tattoos, all over her body - flowers and lacy spider webs and words in different languages - but she's a bit too nice to be hard core.

Mom has a tattoo, too, only she won't tell me where it is. I've got a pretty good idea, though, since I've seen pictures of my mother in a bikini and the tattoo was nowhere to be seen.

Awkward, I know.

Mom doesn't wear bikinis anymore, but Dad has a whole photo album of these random pictures of her.

Most of them are candid shots, taken at crime scenes or whatever, of her face. There are an alarming amount of photos of her butt.

My dad seems to have had a thing for my mom waaaay before they got together.

That, or he's just a creepy stalker guy with a camera.

Maybe you were his idea!

. . . You _were_, weren't you?

_STOP TRYING TO CONTROL MY LIFE, DAD! _And don't judge me . . . Aunt Abby talks to her machines, I talk to a fluffy pink journal! _So_?

Ahem.

Well, you traitor, I am off to hide you in the secretest (yeah, Mom, I know it's 'most secret.' Shut up) hiding place of all time.

Where is that?

Wouldn't you like to know...?

Ha.

...

Dear Diary,

Do you have a name?

No, like, seriously. Do you? Because starting my rants by addressing you as a diary makes me sound like a little old-fashioned girl in a hair bow and a pinafore.

Which I'm not.

For that matter, do you know _my_ name?

You know I'm a paranoid girl who hates pink and fluff (fluff like your cover, not fluff like marshmallow fluff. I love that crap.) and has perverted parents. And yet you don't know my name?

What kind of spy are you anyway?

My mom was a spy. Did you know that?

Yep.

It kind of makes refusing to clean my room a risk, like bridge-jumping or running with scissors or something. I do it anyway.

For the thrill?

Nah. I'm just lazy.

But, anyway, my mom was a spy (like James Bond, only snarkier, Dad always says) until she became an NCIS agent.

Dad is not as hard-core. (That's right, Dad! I said it? What're you gonna do about it?)

He's pretty much just a guy who watches movies, cracks jokes, carries a gun, and married a ninja.

Dad refers to me as his mini-ninja.

Stop. Stop laughing. So it's pet name. Whatever. I bet your diary-dad called _you_ a nickname! What was it - Princess Fluffikins?

Yeah, that's right. You _stay_ quiet!

Ahem.

But I'm not much of a ninja. I can't even steal the remote away from my Dad when he's asleep. He always wakes up and lectures me for daring to disrupt his _Bond-ing_ time.

Which is an absolutely _atrocious_ pun, as my mother never ceases to inform him. He just grins and says, "Ah, you know you like it," in his best British accent.

Then he usually kisses Mom before she can say otherwise.

Dad, if you're reading this, I would like to take the time to inform you that you and Mom kiss entirely too much for parents. Seriously.

None of my friends' parents kiss in public, except maybe on the cheek.

My friends Sasha and Tarynn are not very helpful to complain to, though, because they think Mom and Dad are 'cute.'

Of course, Sasha's parents are divorced and Tarynn watches rom-coms like Dad watches, well, movies in general. The last time my friends slept over, Tarynn and Dad spent over an hour discussing the plotline clichés of the romantic-comedy genre.

Plus, both Sasha and Tarynn have a crush on Dad.

I know. My judgment is definitely to be questioned in the friends department.

Actually, I know a couple of people who have crushes on Dad. Like, adult people. Including Sasha's flake of a mother and my eighth-grade history teacher.

Mom doesn't really seem to care when they flirt with him. I think she knows that there's no real competition.

Dad kind of worships Mom a little bit.

It's sort of cute and sort of creepy, and I've learned that sometimes it is just best to leave the room while humming loudly.

Like, last night, Dad started cracking innuendos at the dinner table.

_SEXUAL INNUENDOS OVER FETUCCINI ALFREDO, DIARY!_

The worst thing? Mom's come-backs.

I am not allowed to watch R-rated movies, and yet _this_ goes on over my dinner table?

I almost threw up my pasta, I'm telling you.

Me: Holy crap! I am _done_!

Mom: *removes her suggestive smirk long enough to shoot me _The Look_* Do not say crap.

Yeah, my mom doesn't use contractions, and yet she can catch the slightest hint of an innuendo hidden in the midst of a request to pass the salt. Go figure.

Me: What, so it's okay for you guys to talk about . . . _that_, but I can't say crap?

Dad: *puts on that innocent face that pretty much saved me from flunking eighth grade history last year* Talk about _what_?

Me: The . . . _stuff_ you were just talking about!

Dad: I said I was hungry.

Cue the teenage 'no one understands me' scream of frustration. I stormed into my room only to be called back to the table to clear my plate.

In one sense, it sucks to be an only child - you never get anyway with anything, and there's no one to commiserate with except a pink fluffy diary.

Can you even hear me? You don't have ears.

I would draw ears, but I'm not sure where your face is. Your eyes are on the front cover, but I think that's pretty disproportionate, considering where your spine is . . .

Hmm . . .

Besides, why would you need ears? You're a book, not a person.

That's right. I just went there. Here - I'll say it again. You. Are. A. _B-O-O-K._

Gasp!

If you had eyes, I'm sure you'd be crying, but - alas - I reduced your eyes to black holes of matted permanent-marker-covered fuzz. It's rather creepy, like a zombie or something.

Crud. Mom is calling me. We're going to Grampa Gibbs' for dinner, and I promised (i.e. _she_ volunteered me) to make cookies. _Funnnnn . . ._

**Should I continue this? I definitely could, if you guys want me to. Let me know, por favor? **

**P.S. - If you want me to continue, I need name suggestions for our little journalist. Something pretty, possibly with its roots in Hebrew? Any suggestions would be helpful! Thanks!  
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	2. Chapter 2

**Well, I banged this out on the way home from my grandparent's house today, so I thought I'd just get it out of my way and publish it. I kind of like it. Um, name-wise, I still don't know. You guys gave me a bunch of awesome possibilities, I just haven't found anything that really caught my eye. I don't want to go with the cliched names like Tali or Kate, at least for a first name, but I want something with meaning. Geez, I'm picky, right? This is why my mom hates to go shopping with me! **

**Happy Thanksgiving, by the way! **

Yo Dawg.

Hmm. Well, it's an improvement. Now I sound like a gangsta guy with saggy jeans and dreadlocks, which I'm not . . . Although my hair certainly takes on a certain clumpy quality if I don't brush it for a couple days . . .

Your hair, by the way, is not looking terribly fantastic either, so I'd suggest you stop smirking.

That's better.

So, shall we get on with the rant, having gotten the mandatory insults out of the way? Do you have your spectacles, tissues, and notepad within reaching distance?

Hmmm . . . A notebook with a notepad . . . Does the notepad within the notebook have a notepad? Because that'd be like Inception or something . . .

Ahem. Rant. Right.

So guess who's grounded again? . . . Bill Clinton? Puff the Magic Dragon? Kim Kardashian?

Yeah, no. Though I do wonder how the heck you know who Kim Kardashian is. What kind of trashy magazines do you associate yourself with, diary? I thought you were better than this!

Anyway, I'm grounded. Again.

Why?

You are so nosy, you know that? Seriously, don't you have a life to live? Or do you live vicariously through the exploits of people like me and Kim Kardashian?

Sniffle. That's kind of sad. I bet you sleep alone and spend New Year's Eve with your mother in the bookshelf, sweet bookshelf, too.

I find your silence rather suspicious, but choose not to pursue, as I have issues of my own, which you were _supposed_ to be listening sympathetically to! Why do you always have to make everything about yourself?

Page-hog.

So I'm grounded again, because apparently I have a smart-mouth.

I don't know what basis they have for _that_ theory, I must say . . . Any ideas, diary?

(By the way, that was sarcasm. Ink doesn't really convey the proper strains of snideness necessary for delivering such a statement, but I do my best.)

The frustrating thing - other than the whole 'no cell phone, no computer, no extra curriculars, no life' situation - is the fact that, honestly, I have no idea what I did wrong.

I mean, sure, I was being obnoxious. But that's entirely Dad's fault! It's his DNA! And if Mom doesn't like a smarty-pants, why the heck did she marry Anthony DiNozzo Jr.?

Tarynn and Sasha have a long list of reasons why he and Mom are the perfect couple, by the way, written in the back of a shiny pink spiral notebook. You and she should hook up.

You could entertain her on dates by divulging my deepest, darkest secrets over wine and cheese.

Do notebooks drink?

Well, I doubt you do. I bet one girly cocktail is all it takes to knock you flat on your back. Ha.

So, anyway.

I'm grounded, which means you'll be seeing a lot of me. Sitting on my bed, sulking. I do this very well.

I can't think of anything else to say, except that I hate you.

Over and out.

...

Honey, I'm hoooome!

Yeah, I called you honey. Don't get a swollen head about it.

Oh, wait - I forgot. No head.

Thou is headless. And fluffy. And pink. Makes for a truly terrifying Muppet.

If my insults are lacking, well, insult, I apologize. Same goes for the water droplets that are smearing my decidedly unfeminine black ink.

Yeah, yeah - so I'm crying. I'm not a robot with attitude issues after all.

Why?

... Why, what?

Why am I crying? ... None of your business. D

Geez, you really are a snoop, you know that?

Oh, so _now_ you're interested in my well-being? I'm touched, really, though your timing just _sucks_. Obviously, I don't want to talk about it.

Nope.

Stop flashing those whimpery-eyes at me. It won't work. I am stone-cold and entirely immune to puppy-dog eyes.

Nothing doiiiing...

. . . Okay. I'll explain. But don't interrupt or ask questions or say something stupidly sympathetic, because then I will be forced to relocate you to some toilet or another. And flush.

Mom and Dad are fighting.

Okay, so it's anticlimactic. Cry me a river. You _did_ ask, you know that?

But, see, the thing is - my parents don't fight.

I mean, sure, they are constantly sniping each other. And Mom frequently threatens Dad with various household items. And, yeah, they insult each other sometimes in rapid Spanish. But that's not real. At the end of the day, they're still a team, you know?

Of course you don't know. You're a frickin' notebook. But whatever. This makes me seem more sane than just talking to myself.

So what happened?

I have no idea, honestly, because my parents don't take me seriously enough to talk about things with me.

All I know is that Dad came home alone, looking kind of nervous, and started dinner. "Mom will be home later," he told me. He kept looking at the door like he was waiting for someone to burst in.

Madre dearest arrived right as I was helping myself to a second serving of pasta. Immediately, Dad jumped to his feet to fix her with a questioning look. "What's up?" he demanded.

Then Mom looked pointedly at me. Honestly, I might as well be a toddler, the way they treat me.

Dad looked torn, probably feeling bad about sending me away, but I'm a regular saint, if I do say so myself. "I've got homework to do," I lied. "Thanks for dinner."

Yeah, yeah, I'm a frickin' fairy princess. Bow down and kiss my feet with your nonexistent lips, lowly book of pink floof.

So off I went to stew in my soup of uncertainty. (Nice metaphor on my part, right? Oh, you're too kind . . .)

I don't know what's going on, but I'm a little bit scared, diary, because Mom and Dad never yell like this.

Never.

But they're speaking Italian, so all I'm getting from it is the anger.

Oh my god, my dad is so _angry_.

And Mom is angry, too, and - holy crap - I'm scared. Is this what Sasha used to listen to every night, before her mom turned into a spineless flirt and her dad ran away with his secretary?

I think maybe I should call Grampa Gibbs.

He won't tell me anything, of course, but at least I'll have someone decidedly masculine to talk to.

...

I don't have words to think up a witty greeting right now, so I'm just going to cut to the chase.

For the first time in my life, my parents have treated me like an adult. And I'm not enjoying it in the least.

Grampa Gibbs talked with me last night until Mom and Dad stopped yelling. I cried a lot, embarrassingly, but he was amazing about it.

Gibbs is, without a doubt, the best grandfather ever.

It's the other grandfathers that are the problem, actually.

Well, it's not really Grandpa DiNozzo's fault. He's just a rich womanizer of a teddy bear who likes to flirt with Mom.

Grandpa Eli's the problem.

Mom and Dad sat me down on the couch today and explained things in a tone that was almost truthful, for once. I might have even felt important and grown up if I hadn't been so busy feeling numb.

Grandpa Eli's the Director of Mossad, which is a government agency in Israel that always makes Mom's eyes tighten up painfully when mentioned. I've only met him a couple of times, but each get-together left Mom really quiet and Dad really irritable.

Mom used to be Mossad. I don't know what happened, except that something persuaded her to quit and join NCIS. She's tried to have as little to do with her previous occupation as possible, as far as I can tell.

But yesterday Grandpa Eli contacted NCIS with some vital information pertaining to an investigation of theirs. Apparently it's a matter he's been looking into for a while.

This is all fine and good. I honestly couldn't care less. It's the next part that made my stomach start to hurt really bad.

"Eli has requested that I be one of the agents to assist his team in the investigation," Mom told me calmly, meeting my eyes from across the dinner table. For once, I noticed, she wasn't holding hands with Daddy under the table.

Dad's eyes were on the pile of pancakes on his plate, which he was rapidly reducing to syrupy mush with the tines of his fork.

"You said yes?" I asked, confused and slightly concerned. What had Eli done that was bad enough to cause such distress by requesting Mom's help on a case.

"It makes sense," was the answer. Mom watched me anxiously, almost pleading me to see things as she did. "My skills as a linguist and my familiarity with the territory-"

I had frowned at that. "Familiarity with the territory?"

Mom nodded and reached over to take my hand, a gesture that was decidedly out of character for her. She wasn't really the touchy-feely type. As nice as it was, her hand in mine only made me more scared.

"I spent almost two years in Afghanistan when I was with Mossad-"

It was only then that it hit me. Yeah, I'm slow on the uptake. Blame it on the time Dad beamed toddler me with a rubber ball while trying to play catch.

"You're leaving?"

My voice was embarrassingly high-pitched, the way it gets when I'm scared.

"Only until the case is solved," Mom assured me quickly, keeping a tight hold on my hand and looking everywhere but at Daddy. "It would not be for very long, I promise, and we can-"

And that was when I ran out of the room, wrenching my hand from hers and knocking my chair to the floor. As I stormed up the stairs, I heard Dad say, "Well that went well." Mom snapped something in reply.

A second later the front door opened and shut violently.

Alright, so maybe I am being a baby. Maybe it was a childish move to run away. Sue me.

If this is being an adult, I'd rather go back to sippy cups and nap time, thank you very much.

Being treated as an adult _sucks_.


	3. Chapter 3

**This one's for Anonymous033, who is brilliant. And came up with a name for my own li'l anonymous journalist. So she gets a shout-out, (Hi, Soph!). All the cute shoes in the world for you, my dear! I'll include her name in the next chapter, I just couldn't think of a way to do it here. So I'll probably mention you again next chapter as well. :-)  
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**Well, Toto, I don't think we're in fluff country anymore. And no amount of red sparkly shoes and/or chocolate can persuade me otherwise. There WILL be fluff, but I needed a plot. So.**

**Disclaimer: I-ay on't-day own-ay CIS-Nay.  
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Dear Diary,

I went to my guidance counselor again today.

I know. I'm horrified, too.

It's just that . . . I don't even know. I still don't know, which shows what a great psychologist this guy is. He just sat there, nodded sympathetically, and handed me a couple of tissues.

What?

No!

No, of course I didn't cry! What do you take me for? Some namby-pamby diary-writer who likes pink fluff and cries over every silly little thing, like her mother being shipped off to a war-zone in Afghanistan where she could very well get blown up if Grampa Eli hasn't bitten off her head already? Geez.

So, no, I didn't cry.

Nope.

Stop looking at me like that.

It is physically impossible for you to look at me like that, as I've scribbled out your eyes, remember?

...okay, so maybe I cried a little. But it was only a little. Mostly I just ranted.

What do you mean, you're not surprised?

Are you suggesting I rant a lot?

Hmmph. Shut up. I need to ran- um, I need to discourse:

Mom's leaving in exactly a week.

Dad's being distant.

Grampa Gibbs is speaking in guttural grunts.

Auntie Abby's throwing a Going-Away-But-Coming-Back-Soon party, and that's what she has officially dubbed it, hyphens and all. I know, because I saw the invitations.

And I'm a mopey, emotional mess. My tough-girl attitude is melting into a pool of fluffy pink touchy-feely gunk. It's humiliating, and it makes my eyeliner run.

Dad and Mom are acting . . . weird. I don't know how to explain it. It's like they're trying really, really hard to keep things under control, and so they're pulling away from each other. They don't touch. They don't kiss, they don't hold hands.

When I peeked into their bedroom last night on my way to the bathroom, they were on opposite sides of the bed - not touching, facing away from each other.

Grampa Gibbs says that they're afraid. But that's stupid. Mom and Dad aren't afraid of anything, especially each other.

When I told him this, he sighed into the phone. It made him sound old. "Your parents love you," he said finally, "and they love each other. Everything's going to be fine."

I don't know if I believe him, even though I want to.

My family is so screwed up right now that I don't even have a fittingly obnoxious metaphor for it. So I'm going to bed.

'Night.

...

Morning, Sunshine.

Today I am going shopping with Auntie Abby and McUncle Probie for party supplies. Then we're going to watch that silly _Twilight_ movie. Then we're going out for dinner. Then I'm sleeping over at Aunt Abby's house and we're going to stay up late and do our nails and have a girl's night.

Apparently I am supposed to be fooled by an elaborate attempt to take my mind off . . . everything. Grampa Gibbs laughed when I said as much on the phone with him last night.

"You're too smart for your own good," he said.

I disagree. If I was smart, I would have figured out how to keep Mom from leaving, how to save Mom and Dad's relationship, how to straighten my hair so that it looks like Mom's, and not like a frizzy mess.

But Mom is packing in the next room, Dad is watching Sports Center in the living room, and my hair is a curly mess.

Having thoroughly depressed myself, I will now take my leave. TTYL.

...

Same day. Well, it's night now, but still. You get my point.

I am so utterly disgusted myself right now that I don't even have words to describe it.

Why?

I, Diary, am turning into one of Them - one of those girls who actually likes pink and fluff and cries every time Edward tells Bella, through elaborate metaphor and bushy eyebrows, that he loves her.

Imma go kill myself now.

Nah. Just kidding. I need to rant. Who'd I talk if I was dead?

Aww, really? You'd do that - give up a life in the sun to spend an eternity six feet under with my rotting body?

I'm- I'm touched!

But I'm not crying. No worries. Been there, done that. . . Besides, you don't live a life in the sun. You live under my mattress, which is dusty and dark and inhabited by dust bunnies intent on world domination.

Plus your pink fluffiness would disrupt my eternal rest. My nose would itch from your fur and my eyes would water and-

McUncle Probie just walked in an asked what I was doing, and whether or not I would like to watch _Top Ten Worst Bands of All Time_ on television. Apparently several of Auntie Abby's favorite groups were making their television debut and she was very excited. Weird.

I told him I was contemplating death and itchy, pink fluff. He got a weird look on his face.

I'm thinking maybe I should go explain myself before he calls the suicide hotline. Auntie Abby will understand, if no one else.

Tis a tragic life I lead, oh fluffykins. Alas!

...

Still same day. Night. Whatever.

Auntie Abby agreed with my opinion that you would serve only as a nuisance in the afterlife. She has obligingly un-girlified you by tracing an exact replica of her lacy spider web tattoo onto the approximate location of your neck. So ha.

Anyway, I was in disgrace when we last spoke. And I'm still disgusted with myself.

But don't worry, I wasn't crying over the fate of poor, schmexy Jacob Black, nor was I sobbing because Edward loves Bella, and not me. I'm not so far gone . . . yet.

I was just . . . I don't know, I guess it was the wedding scene that got to me, because . . . Well, it was pretty. And I liked the music and . . .

Okay, so I was thinking about my parents. There. Happy?

Obviously Auntie Abby's plan to distract me from my train wreck of a life failed. . . Although I do like the shoes we picked out together. . . Because every time the actors kissed, and every time they mentioned love - so, like, every other second - I thought about Mom and Dad.

I used to get embarrassed when they made bad jokes or kissed or 'played grab-ass,' as Grampa Gibbs calls it, but a part of me was always reassured by it.

I was always fairly certain that I would never end up like Sasha, with only a floozy of a mother looking after me, and if I ever did, it would be because of the occupational hazards. There would be a flag over a coffin and a hole in my heart.

But now I'm starting to wonder.

**Read and Review. Do it, or thy shalt be smited by a Rodent Of Unusual Size. (Name that movieee . . . GO!) **


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry that I didn't get this up sooner. I've been busy with real life - midterms, sleep, school play practice, sleep, homework, sleep** - **and just never got around to it. But, anyway, here's my next installment. Not quite as sad as the last one, hopefully. I am in a happy mood today. Because I slept late. And because I just had Italian bread. So. **

**Disclaimer - *adopts best winsome, sweet, little-girl voice* *frizzles hair and dyes it red* The sun'll co****me out tomorrow! Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrowwww, you'll have ownership rights . . . **

Dear Diary,

On an entirely different, random, and petrifying note, I got asked out today. By, like, a guy. To go on a date. Me.

Is that not the strangest thing you've ever heard or what?

Don't waggle your eyebrows at me. It's not like I said yes or anything.

And now you're disappointed. Has anyone ever told you that you are impossible to please? Seriously.

I mean, what am I supposed to say?

Yes?

Meh. You are no help. You know why? Because you are a girly, gender-confused, pink, excessively-fluffy notebook with a secret wish to be recycled and turned into a crappy paperback romance with all sorts of awkward gush written inside you.

But guess what?

You're just a girly, etc., etc., notebook. And the only thing I ever write in you about is the tale of my woebegone life, which is just dripping with teenage angst and sarcasm.

Some dreams just don't come true, I guess.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yes, my woebegone life, which drips with teenage angst and sarcasm. How thrilling.

Mom leaves in four days. Four. Frickin'. Days.

Cautro frickin' . . . I don't know how to say 'days' in Spanish . . . But you get my point.

Do I sound like a baby? Yes.

Am I acting like a baby? Well, I've been crying a lot. So I guess you could say that.

It all just kinda sucks.

Mom and Dad are so . . . unlike themselves. It's creepy. They're so awkwardly polite with each other, like strangers, except when they fight.

They fought tonight, and oddly enough, it was the most normal thing that has happened all week. At least when they fight, and Dad's voice gets all bitter and sarcastic and Mom's face gets all stiff and harsh, it shows that they still care, right?

At least they're communicating, albeit loudly, in sentences that don't start with 'please' and end with 'thank you.'

Because Dad being polite is like the sky being pink, like gas being cheap, like _Simon Cowell _being polite.

Grampa Gibbs said not to worry. Tomorrow's Monday, and he's going to give Mom and Dad a talking-to at work that they will never forget.

I know it's blasphemy, but I kinda wonder what difference it'd make at this point.

Wait, no, I take it back! I'm sorry, Grampa Gibbs! Please don't smite me with your icy blue glare of death and blue-raspberry snow cones! I'm too young and beautiful and single to die!

Yes, I know I'm single by choice. But whatever. Shut up.

...

Three days.

I'm done with courtesies. Get used to it, bub. From now on there's no Mr. Nice Guy . . . Girl. . . Young adult. This is sounding less and less impressive by the second. . . Whatever.

Yep, I'm done with manners. I gonna drink straight from the milk carton and sleep in my socks and eat spaghetti on the good living room sofa.

Ahh, the freedom of bachelor life.

Dad and I joked around about it today, how we were gonna throw rowdy parties and watch R-rated movies and order out every night, only Dad's smile seemed a little bit fake.

I think Daddy's gotten used to having someone around to kick his butt and make him home-cooked Italian meals.

And, honestly, I don't really like take-out food all that much. Mom's a way better cook.

But I'm not gonna talk about that. I'm not.

Nosiree, Bob, not me.

So stop asking me to talk about my feelings, 'coz I don't want to talk about it. Not even a little bit.

Let's change the subject, shall we?

Hmm . . . Well, on a strange tangent, guess who now has a stalker?

Yeppers. Poor little nerdy Brian Lassiter, who cannot weight more than 60 pounds and has Harry Potter glasses. He sorta looks like how Uncle Palmer looked when he was younger, only not as adorkable.

Yeah, it's not a great look.

The fact that I have a stalker _is_ weirdly flattering, though. I admit it freely.

He was the one who asked me out yesterday. He texted me 8 times last night, apologizing for 'complicating our relationship by professing his feelings,' and then he asked me out again today.

And, yeah, that was a direct quote from one of his less nerdy texts. You can tell 'coz of the quotation marks around the phrase.

My English teacher would be so proud right now...

Anyway, I made the mistake of telling Dad about this while we were setting the table for dinner, and Mom went all 'Angry Mama Bear Protecting Her Cub' on me.

"He is following you around?" she demanded, looking all serious, like maybe Brian was some sort of Iranian spy instead of just a geeky little pre-teen who skipped like five grades.

I tried to explain why this kid was no threat, but Mom still looked suspicious.

If Brian is found dead in a ditch somewhere in Timbuktu tomorrow, I would just like to clarify that I had nothing to do with it.

...

Two days.

Fourteen texts from Brian.

Two dead-serious offers from Ima to 'talk to the boy and encourage him to cease bothering you.'

And a partridge in a freaking pear tree.

Dad gave me a rape whistle and a congratulatory slap on the back. Apparently HE 'acquired' his first 'conquest' in fifth grade, having made quite an impression on a fourth grader by stealing her jump rope at recess.

Ever the charmer, my dad. . .

Well today is Auntie Abby's party-with-the-hyphenated-name-that-reeks-of-anxiety-cleverly-disguised-by-cake-and-optimism.

Aunt Abby can't cook for her life, but she has this stubborn, life-long refusal to hire caterers, so I'm stocking up on PB&Js and leftover pizza to tide me over until dessert.

At least I know that the cake will be good. . .

Mom's making her own cake - chocolate, with cream cheese icing and fresh raspberries.

Dad caved under pressure and informed her of the precise time, venue, and guest list only a couple of hours after the invitations to the party, which was _supposed _to be a surprise, were distributed.

Auntie Abby is really, really nice to me, but Dad is really milking the whole 'imminent death' motif, like she might not be so pleasant to him, the snitch.

He hath bequeathed the entirety of his movie collection to me, proclaiming Ima ignorant of its value and, therefore, not a worthy beneficiary.

Mom gets the furniture, the apartment, and his Mighty Mouse stapler. "That is all?" Mom complained, pulling a face and swatting Dad when he tried to swipe a taste of the icing.

Dad shrugged dramatically and ran his finger around the cake platter to collect excess icing when Mom turned her back. "You're lucky you're getting anything. You are the cause of my demise, after all."

"I _will_ be if you touch that icing one more time," she promised without turning around.

I swear, my parents have been around each other too long. Maybe some vacation time _would_ be beneficial . . .

. . . Naw, I don't mean it.

Maw and Paw be tryin' really hard to act as normal as possible, which I'm pretty sure has something to do with the talking to that Grampa Gibbs delivered, as promised, on Monday.

It's nice for the most part, hearing them joke around and tease, except it all seems a little fake, just like a well-rehearsed play, or Kim Kardashian's face . . .

No, I am not secretly an admirer of Kim Kardashian! What on earth would possess you to suggest that?

I _do not_ bring her up all the time!

What are you going to accuse me of next, huh? Are you going to start insinuating that I'm a Beleiber or a Twi-hard or-

Oh.

Well, I didn't mean that I _liked_ Twilight, I just . . . sobbed like a baby through most of it . . .

. . . O.o

. . . My life has just been turned on its end. I have been shaken to the core. My very beliefs are being questioned.

I AM UNDERGOING GREAT EMOTIONAL TURMOIL, DO YOU HEAR ME?

GREAT EMOTIONAL TURMOIL!

I'm entitled to some indulgence in bubble baths and romantic comedies, am I not?

WOULD YOU DENY ME OF MY SOLE SOURCE OF COMFORT IN THIS TIME OF STRESS?

Yeesh. Capslock abuse. I sound like Harry Potter in Order of the Phoenix, what with all this angsty grammar-crucifixion.

Hey, I did warn you, right?

Now off to swipe some icing before Dad eats it all . . .

**So . . . opinions? On the greatest Tiva episodes since the good old days of last season? On my chapter, which I dilly-dallied shamelessly ****about putting up? Requests? Complaints? Favorite lines? Or you could just write me a haiku about my lazy, procrastinating tendencies when it comes to writing, homework, studying, life in general. I accept it all. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Geez, I'm bad at this updating thing. Sorry. But there is a light at the end of this tunnel, if you want to be trite. Hell week is approaching in my school play (expect NO updates then. Seriously. I'll be rehearsing until the wee hours of the morning. Or at least the late hours of the night.) and then I'm home free. Other than homework. But who cares about that? **

**Disclaimer - That's what she said. **

So.

Guess who?

Nope, not the Michelin Marshmallow Tire Man.

Guess again.

Nope, not the creepy bee dude on the Honey Nut Cheerios box.

Last guess.

Nope, not a creepy adolescent who likes to randomly reference pop culture icons such as obese marshmallow men, demonic bumblebees, and Kim Kardashian.

Ha. You lose.

Shut up. You can't talk, thus you can't claim that I'm cheating . . . Which I'm not, btw.

So, anyway, guess who is channeling her negative energy into something positive in an attempt to make her parents' last couple of days together as nice as possible?

. . . I don't care if you don't want to play, you have to! This is the format I'm writing in today!

HEY, LISTEN, SKIPPY, I AM A DERANGED CHILD SUFFERING FROM ABANDONMENT ISSUES. I HAVE A COLLECTIBLE STAR WARS LIGHTSABER, SIGNED PERSONALLY BY GEORGE LUCAS HIMSELF, AND I AM NOT AFRAID TO USE IT! SO GUESS ALREADY!

The question?

Huh.

What _was_ the question? Let me check . . .

Oh, yeah. Guess who's channeling her positive energy into something, etc., etc., to make her parents' last couple days together happy?

. . . Who, me? That's your guess? . . . .

So let me get this straight - you think I'M making an effort to be agreeable? _Me_? _Agreeable_?

.

Don't get all sulky on me, now. Don't be a sore loser. Truth is you just suck at guessing games. So cry me a river, then build me a bridge and get over it, girlfray-und!

See, truth is, I have been sorta making an effort. Kinda. It's just . . .

Ugh. I don't _want_ to be nice.

Gawd, I'm such a selfish brat.

I mean, my mom's probably scared, even if she's not showing it, because she IS human.

Or . . . Well, she _claims_ to be, anyway . . .

And my dad's probably scared, even though you can't tell through all his antics.

And then there's me, with my Frown of Perpetual Misery affixed upon my lovely countenance and my Tongue of Perpetual Snarkiness affixed between my pearly whites.

So here's what's down, brothah. We're skipping out in the emotions department. So here are the bald facts -

Bald Fact 1) Mom has weapons hidden ALL over the house. Seriously. It's insane. She started pulling them out of nowhere and everywhere and anywhere when she was packing, and I'm all like, "Hollleeeee crap. I be livin' in a arsenal, fool."

I mean, the woman had a stiletto knife in her shoe closet. (Yes, my ninja assassin of a mother has an entire closet dedicated to her shoe collection, of which I am envious. And, yes, my ninja assassin of a mother also has a highly developed sense of irony. Stiletto knife, stiletto heels . . . My momma ain't no llama.)

There was also a gun hidden in the dreaded feminine products cabinet beneath the sink. But we're not gonna go there, because I'm still not convinced that you aren't just a vaguely flamboyant male. So.

Bald Fact 2) Dad watches too many movies. He's started quoting them _constantly_. Grampa Gibbs says it's a coping mechanism.

I say it's gosh-darn _annoying_.

Except when he does his Connery impression. Then I applaud appreciatively.

Bald Fact 3) I am a selfish brat.

Seriously. Mom and Dad are trying so hard and I'm being Grumpy the Dwarf, only minus the adorableness and the lumpy nose and the Smurf-like hat thing. Also I don't sing.

I keep trying to pull it together, I really do . . . Like, I made breakfast this morning. French toast and coffee and fresh strawberries and an explosion incident involving the powdered sugar.

And then Mom got all melty-looking when she came into the kitchen for her morning coffee.

I thought she was going to freaking _cry_ or something, and so of course I had to go and get irrationally emotional about it.

And getting upset consequently got me angry.

So I had to go and ruin everything by saying, "I figured you should at least get in a good breakfast before you go off to starve in some hell hole terrorist camp for the rest of your life."

. . . I know, right? I'm an atrocious person. A terrible person. A horrible daughter. No wonder Mom's so anxious to get out of here, when I'm acting like this.

And then I felt so bad that I ran out of the room and cried under my bed for the rest of the morning. And then I slunk out for grilled cheese sandwiches and a James Bond, after a great deal of Daddy-coaxing, only to have Mom ruffle my hair and tell me, "Breakfast was delicious."

And it's not freaking fair. Not at all. Why the hell didn't she get mad at me and banish me to my room and pitch my soggy excuse for French toast at the wall?

I deserved nothing less, and she had to go and be so damn _motherly_ about it and, holy crud, I'm gonna miss her.

At least the grilled cheese was good.

Bald Fact 4) My facts are not nearly as bald as had been intended.

Bald Fact 5) Perhaps a shave is in order?

Bald Fact 6) Dad's been looking at me oddly all day, what with the whole crying-under-the-bed-with-only-the-dust-bunnies-and-a-floofy-pink-diary-for-company incident, so I think that asking to borrow his razor right now would not be advisable.

Bald Fact 7) Mom's in the bathroom, no doubt retrieving unknown amounts of weaponry from the spare roll of toilet paper. We'll have to wait until she leaves to shave the facts.

Bald Fact 8) I meant 'I.' I have to wait. Since you're not invited into my plural.

Bald Fact 9) Yes, I do too have a plural. Shut up.

Bald Fact 10) This is a really crappy list. I'm gonna stop now.

Bald Fact 11) I'm an awful person. So bad. Mom just told me we're going out for dinner and that I can pick the venue, and damn it, she's being so _nice_ and _understanding_. Oh, gawd, I'm gonna _gag_. Or _cry_.

I mean, who the hell else uses the word 'venue' in every day conversation?

I need to go wash my face and reapply mascara.

Adieu.

**Okey-dokey. Review. Do it right now, or face death by overgrown poison ivy plants, which will strangle you from the inside out whilst making your skin itchy and generally unattractive. Yes, I DO have that kind of power. Imagination is a powerful thing, folks. So review. Seriously. You don't want a rash in your intestines, do you? **

**~Styx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, guys! Sorry, I meant to put this up yesterday, but I didn't have the time. Anyway, here's a boatload of sadness and then a random interlude into strange hyperness, because I don't like making my poor baby narrator depressed. I mean, she's a DiNozzo, right? DiNozzo's hide behind a facade of humor and general obnoxiousness, right? (This is how I'm justifying it to myself, but if it seems really, terribly disjointed to you, I'll revise this. I don't know.)**

**Disclaimer: "If I had a gun with two bullets and I was in a room with Hitler, bin Laden, and Toby, I would shoot Toby twice.'... Name that TV show . . . Go!**

Dear Diary,

Airport bagels taste like the hardened contents of a vacuum cleaner, all dusty and gross and stale.

Maybe that was why I kept choking on mine.

Mom cried a little teeny bit. Not even really enough to make her make-up run. Just enough to set me off.

_my_ make-up ran, let me tell you. It was atrocious. I had to go wash my face in the bathroom. As in, I tactfully allowed Ima and Daddy a minute to say a private goodbye

I came out and Dad was holding onto her really tight, with his face buried in her neck and one of his hands all tangled in her hair.

It would have been all adorable and embarrassing if it hadn't been literally scary.

They'd been avoiding touching each other entirely up until now, like skin-to-skin contact might shatter whatever unspoken peace treaty had held the household in such stiffened silence the past couple of days.

Mom must be _scared_ if she's participating in PDA.

"I love you," Dad said, and Mom flattened her lips into a hard line and closed her eyes really tight.

Then they called her flight, and I started crying all over again. It was like something out of a soppy movie about family values.

She left and I cried. Daddy held my hand all the way to the car.

I got to sit in the passenger seat on the ride home, only I'm significantly shorter than Mom and so the seatbelt, which fits her perfectly, was too high up and kept digging into my neck.

I was afraid to adjust the position of the seat, though. It just kinda seemed sacrilegious, like I was already throwing her out of my life.

I have a red welt on my neck from where the belt chafed up against me. It looks really badass.

...

Day two of no Ima.

Dad sat me down and talked to me today. His eyes looked really tired and he looked really _old_. I don't like it. It makes me feel sick.

"My mother died when I was ten," he told me. Dad's different from Mom in the way they express emotions. If Ima's tense, you can hear it in the quality of hardness in her voice. If Dad's tense, his jaw locks into place. "And . . . my dad was never good at the whole father thing."

We don't talk to Grandpa DiNozzo much, except when I call him every year on my birthday and thank him for the large sums of money he tucks into store-bought birthday cards. He reminds me of Daddy a lot - he goofs around and is charming and silly - except he always seems a little more fake than Dad.

"When you were born I promised myself that I was never going to be like him," he said slowly, looking at me with no hint of humor. He was being really serious and it was weird. "If you need to talk, I'm here. If you need your space, I'll back off. Just . . . Let's promise each other that we're not going to shut down, okay? We can still be a family while she's gone."

Okay, I cried. A lot. And climbed into his lap and promised. We made home-made pizza for dinner and watched Inception in our p.j.s on the couch.

It was kind of terrible, because there was no one there to sigh dreamily at DiCaprio's baby blues, but I snuggled up against Dad and he spouted irrelevant trivia for my benefit, and we pretended it was okay.

...

Dear Diary,

Listen, I think we need to take a break for a while, see some other people, explore our options.

It's not you, it's me - I just think that I've crossed the border of weirdness and gotten a little too attached to you and your stupid fluff.

I'm not supposed to be enjoying this whole process.

So I'm going to take some time to rethink my life and go back to my independent tomboy roots. Just chillax under the mattress for a couple weeks, m'kay?

This isn't goodbye. Just a TaTa For Now.

TTFN ~ me.

...

Dear Diary (my only true friend since I'm a loser with attitude problems and an overly-hyphenated name),

Tarynn O'Reilly is a schmexy beast with luscious locks, of whom I am very envious. Her toes are not misshapen, nor are they freakishly long, and she does not have a tendency to forget to breathe in between sentences, thus slurring her words like a drunken orangutang (most definitely spelled incorrectly).

Nor is this tendency, which she does not possess, in any way obvious or annoying. And the speech therapist said it would go away once I- once _Tarynn_ gets her braces off anyway so it's not like it matters.

The point is that I, only child of the absolutely intolerably adorable Mr. and Mrs. DiNozzo, am jealous of Tarynn. Who is flawless. And doesn't sound like any variety of primate due to her palate expander, which very well _may_ have eaten Toledo at some point.

Also I am madly in love with dearest darling little Brian Lassiter and am merely waiting for him to hit his growth spurt so that he can sweep me into his arms, bridal style, and carry me off into the sunset.

This is definitely not Tarynn writing this in her lovely, flamboyant, soon-to-be-a-movie star handwriting while pretending to be me. Me as in the person who this journal belongs to. And not Tarynn.

Tarynn is awesome, by the way. Have I mentioned that? I really wish I was Tarynn, but I'm not. Boohoo.

Every time I look in the mirror I wish I was Tarynn. And then I cry until my eyes have shriveled into eyeball raisins.

Tarynn rox! And she wuz here! Luv you, nerd!

...

So. Percival, meet Tarynn. Tarynn, meet Percival.

(Psst. Percival's your new name. I decided this over the length of the two-and-a-half weeks during which you lay abandoned beneath my mattress.)

Dad thinks I need to get out of the house.

I think Dad's getting sick of me already.

Tarynn thinks that a serial killer will come and murder her in her bed unless she has someone sleeping in her room with her on nights that her parents aren't home.

Add it all together and you get spilled bowls of popcorn, cheesy chick flicks, and highly irritating best friends. And, really, it's not all that bad.

Except, of course, my poor, abandoned little self has latched onto a floofy pink diary named Percival like it's a cuddly bear or a comfort blanket. And so I unwisely brought said Percival along, hidden oh-so-cleverly in my pillow case.

Tarynn nearly brained me with your decidedly hard body when she started beating me over the head with my pillow after I unwisely remarked upon the ugliness of Robert Pattinson. You, ever the drama queen, fell to the floor, and Tarynn, ever the psychopath, saw opportunity.

After chasing her around the house for a good five minutes, while she laughed and hurdled over furniture like an overly-caffeinated gazelle on steroids, I was locked out of Tarynn's room while she took up three whole pages of your precious, shiny pink paper with her obnoxiously flamboyant handwriting.

She also drew several disturbing diagrams, but I ripped them out lest they tarnish your little virgin eyes.

I probably should have taken up Mom on her offer to teach me how to pick a lock, but the skill had never seemed terribly necessary until now. I'd've preferred just to be taught how to kick in doors like Grampa Gibbs, but Mom likes her crown molding too much, and she said no.

But we're not talking about Mom. Not ever again until she gets home. So don't even attempt to sneakily bring up the subject mid-conversation. It will succeed only in giving me frown wrinkles. And then I have to smear cold cream on my face before I go to bed. And the cold cream smells like bananas and then I end up having weird dreams about monkeys jumping on my bed.

The point is that Tarynn was most infuriatingly _not_ allowing me into her room, so eventually I just wandered off into the O'Reilly's kitchen and ate peanut butter cookies with Shawn, Tarynn's older brother.

This was not actually an entirely negative development, however, because Shawn is kinda cute, in a freckled, curly-haired kind of way.

Plus the peanut butter cookies had white chocolate chunks in them, and who can hate on that delectable duo?

Brian has given up asking me out and is currently employing Tarynn to subtly gauge whether or not I am angry at him for harassing me.

He is paying her a stick of wintergreen mint gum for every hour she spends investigating, and Tarynn is definitely drawing out her 'investigation' even though she already knows _exactly_ what I think of Brian. And she refuses to share. I mean, she has braces! She's not supposed to chew gum anyway! It's for her own good!

(Shawn also has braces. The O'Reilly both have atrocious dental structure, and thus are well acquainted with the friendly neighborhood orthodontist. Shawn kinda slurs his words a little, too, but it's in a cute way.)

No. I don't have a crush on my best friend's older brother. I just happen to share his affinity for white chocolate chips.

Besides, the first time I ever went over to the O'Reilly's house, Tarynn made Sasha and I solemnly swear on the soul of our fourth grade class pet Mr. Shark Bait Montana, may his hamster soul rest in peace, that we would not develop any sort of fondness towards her older brother.

"He's like a smelly old dog that chews shoes and despises everyone. And everyone despises him," she explained. "We don't know why we keep him around. One of these days he's going to gnaw one shoe too many, and then we'll throw him out on the street. Until then just ignore him. Kick him if he tries to bite your ankle."

So I don't _like_ him or anything. He just has a cute smile. Even though his teeth are as crooked as a broken zipper.

Stop looking at me like that. I don't have time for a love life! I have to keep myself busy being stupid and silly and girly and write a global term paper somewhere in between it all!

Dad gets worried if I'm quiet or serious for too long. So at home I have to act uber hyper. And at school I have my reputation as a spazz to uphold! I don't have time to start blushing when a freckled sophomore grins at me!

Besides, I was not exactly looking my best at the time. My hair was all piled on top of my head and I had one of Dad's huge OSU t-shirts on. Shawn made a face at the logo when he saw it and said, "OSU sucks."

Shawn, being a stereotypical Irish lad, thinks that Notre Dame is the only good college in the world. Every one else can go die in a cabbage patch.

But Dad didn't raise me an OSU fan for nothing. Basically we just rattled off college basketball stats at each other and ate cookies. Then Tarynn got bored and came out of her room _finally_ and I had to go rescue you, and our little non-romantic moment ended.

Not that it was like an actual _moment_ or anything. 'Coz it wasn't. It was just a series of seconds involving basketball and white chocolate.

I'm tired. My sentence structure got lost somewhere in between High School Musical 2 and one of those cheerleader movies. I should sleep.

Tarynn snores. Just saying.

Tootles.

P.S. - I missed you. Kinda. Maybe. Shut up.

**Gah. I don't even know. I'm trying to maintain proper sobriety in mourning of our absent mother-figure while not totally burrowing the irrepressible spirit of a teenage girl with attitude problems. And I'm kind of in love with my new Irish OCs, who are rather suitably being introduced today, on Saint Patty's Day. (Totally by accident, but let's pretend I'm just put together and funny like that, m'kay?) **

**Is it too disjointed? Let me know, please. I am feeling insecure. **

**Review or you will be visited by a nomadic troupe of dancing leprechauns who will dance on your face with their freshly oiled, pointy-toed shoes while you sleep, thus causing your skin to breakout in a case of unfortunate, shamrock-shaped acne in the mornin'. Happy Saint Patrick's day to ye! And, you know, top o' the mornin', even though it's the afternoon. **

**`Styx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey, folks. So here's an update. Read it. Review it. Recycle. **

**Also, for all you smarty-pants people out there who actually know things about psychology (Hi, Soph :D) I am aware that a real guidance counselor person wouldn't act exactly (oh, who're we kidding? AT ALL) like mine, but I'm going to justify this by saying that my DiNozzo-David baby is not recounting their conversation verbatim, and as a possibly-overdramatic teenage girl she might have exaggerated his qualities a little bit. Plus, it's fiction. SO.  
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**Disclaimer - Once upon a time, in a far away land there was a beautiful princess who owned NCIS. And guess what? SHE WASN'T ME! *creys***

Dude.

DUDE

_DUDE_

My freaky, invasive, balding guidance counselor (Hi, Mr. Douglas) read you.

HE READ YOU IN YOUR ENTIRETY AND NOW HE LITERALLY THINKS THAT I HAVE ISSUES THAT NEED TO BE DISCUSSED AND NOW I HAVE TO MEET WITH HIM EVERY WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON IN HIS OFFICE LIKE SOME SORT OF NUT JOB WHO ACTUALLY NEEDS GUIDANCE AND COUNSELING, UNLIKE ME, WHO REALLY JUST NEEDS A LIFE.

Okay, I'm over it.

And, no, Mr. Douglas, I am _not_ going to rip this page out, because I don't care if I insulted you!

YOU INSULTED MY PERSONAL BUBBLE WHEN YOU SMASHED IT INTO BITS WITH A BASEBALL BAT COVERED IN RUSTY SPIKES! IT IS CRYING IN THE CORNER AS WE SPEAK.

From now on, Percival, we will be entirely ignoring Mr. Douglas' presence. (Yeah, you've just been inducted into the plural. Whatever. Shut up.)

Seriously. This is a total invasion of privacy. And Mr. Douglas doesn't seem to get the fact that I'm pretty much just being sarcastic when I write in you. It's not like I think you're a real person or anything!

Oh, stop crying. You know it's the truth.

So basically our lovely exchange went something like this:

Mr. D: So, Ms. DiNozzo, I was thinking I could take a moment to make sure you've been writing in your diary, okay?

Me: *remembers panickedly that I insulted Douglas' low-quality shirt on, like, page one* Um . . .

Mr. D: GREAT! *enthusiasm* *starts reading my innermost thoughts and feelings like they're the next Twilight book and he's a teenage girl*

Me: *after like ten full minutes of painfully awkward silence in which pages were flipped and blood vessels were burst* Um. I didn't actually realize you were going to be reading this

Mr. D: *less enthusiasm* That much is obvious

Me: *literally terrified* Um. I think I might have talked about top-secret government ops in there, which I don't think you have the clearance to read about, so...

Mr. D: I was already aware that your mother was leaving for the Middle East to work an undercover investigation with the Israelis, Ms. DiNozzo. Your mother called me and we had a long chat before her departure last week.

(It's actually been a week and four days, but I let that slide since I'm just cool like that. And totally terrified.)

Mr. D (continued): She's a lovely woman. I notice she uses her maiden name. Are your parents-

Me: Married. _Happily_ married. And my dad has a gun.

Mr. D: Ahem . . . Anyway, Ms. DiNozzo, I think I'll manage just fine. Please be patient. There are only a few pages left.

Me: Um. Okay. *starts biting nails and contemplating drowning self in the fishbowl sitting on the desk*

NOT THAT I'M CONTEMPLATING SUICIDE OR ANYTHING, MR. D.

Mr. D: *closes book* *drinks like two gallons of coffee in one obnoxiously audible gulp* *looks angry* Ahem.

Me: *lamely* Um. Yeah. I'm usually pretty high on sugar when I write in this thingy, so . . .

Mr. D: *eyes your many hard-core tattoos with something that can only be labeled 'disgust'*

Me: Yeeeeaah, I'm . . . not much for pink.

Mr. D: I know. You very adamantly said as much in the diary.

Me: I like to call it a journal, personally. It's more manly.

Mr. D: And there's issue number one, Ms. DiNozzo. During your many one-sided arguments with - ahem - _Percival_, you seem to be under the impression that she is-

Me: _He_.

Mr. D: *taken aback at being interrupted during his dramatic, Doctor House-esque diagnosis* What?

Me: *feeling mildly stupid* Percival is a _he_.

Mr. D: . . . I see. This is what I mean, Ms. DiNozzo. I don't know if you are truly arguing with your diary or with yourself, but the fact remains that you seem adamant on repressing your feelings, even when confiding in a private, _non-verbal_ source.

Me: _Private_?

Mr. D: Sorry, what?

Me: Well, it's not exactly _private_, is it? I mean, you're reading it.

Mr. D: Yes, but I, too, am a private confidante. And I think that is what you need at the moment, someone to ask the questions that the diar- . . . that _Percival_ cannot. It's not healthy to bottle everything up inside-

Me: Because eventually the contained pressure gets to us and our head pops off like a cork in a champagne bottle, right? I think I saw this on an episode of Arthur.

Mr. D: However, for us to maintain a working relationship, I am going to have to ask that you refrain from interrupting m-

Me: *suspiciously* *interrupting* _Relationship_? Whoa, Nelly, I didn't agree to any-

Mr. D: *interrupting, the hypocrite* I am sure your father will agree that a helpful ear would serve beneficial in your time of distress.

Me: *sullenly* DiNozzos don't do shrinks . . .

Mr. D: *happily* They do now.

JUST KILL ME. SERIOUSLY. WEDNESDAYS ARE MY _DOCTOR WHO_ MARATHON DAYS WITH DAD AND TARYNN (AND SHAWN) AND NOW I'M GOING TO MISS AT LEAST THE FIRST EPISODE OF THE AFTERNOON!

Percival, you're such a problem causer, seriously. I was better off before I realized I had emotions.

I'm going to go do something productive like hide in the linen closet, muffle my mouth with a towel, and shriek until my vocal chords are raw.

Adieu.

Don't worry. I'm going to rip this page out first.

…

To my own darling Percival,

Don't worry, Dad's not mad. Maybe slightly concerned about my impromptu screaming session in the linen closet, but not mad.

Apparently he's had a few run-ins with guidance counselors, too, as well as psychologists and one time even a sexual harassment seminar lecturer, only he refuses to tell me about that story, because he says it 'undermines his dignity and manhood.'

My Dad is such a loser.

Not that I'm disrespecting authority or anything. Since I'm such a totally good person who respects authority, especially guidance counselors whose hair lines are not depleting in the least, and who really is my favorite teacher, even though the only thing he teaches is how to do these yoga breaths when you're angry.

Not that that's not _totally _important, 'cause it is. And stuff.

Hi, Mr. Douglas. No, I'm not sucking up or anything.

Shut up, Percival, I am not.

Haha, just kidding. Just a funny little joke. Since Percival is only a silly name I have bestowed on my fluffy pink diary, and not a real person who can talk back or insinuate that I was, in fact, sucking up.

Which I wasn't.

It's just a silly name, just like I used to name my stuffed animals when I was a child. I was very kind to my stuffed animals, I never maimed them or left them out in the rain, which shows what a good, responsible, stable person I am.

And how I don't actually need any guidance or anything, since I'm really very normal and all.

And how maybe you don't need to read Perc- my diary anymore, since I'm not really in any danger of turning into an unstable psychopath.

Also, have I ever told you how fond I am of your necktie collection?

Well, maybe not a collection so much as three striped ties of various pastel colors which you alternate according to the day of the week.

I'm sure unstable people, who crave order and everything, totally love how dependable your tie system is. If you bought a new one it might throw off their whole life schedule, so I think your lack of variety in wardrobe is really admirable and selfless. I'm sure you'd have a really classy, unique ensemble every day otherwise.

. . . Not that your everyday ensemble isn't unique and classy! 'Cause it is!

And also I admire the fact that you buy cheap, low-quality shirts, because it shows you are a smart shopper and also probably have more important things in your life than what your shirt's thread count is, unlike my dad.

See, that right there was a joke. A joke about my dad's obsession with clothes, which in no way undermines his love and affection and gushy stuff like that for me, because he's not abusive nor is he crazy, and I don't need to be taken into foster care.

Just clarifying in case you weren't sure.

Also, my mom isn't really a psychopath, she just has a bit of a knife fixation. Since, y'know, she's such a good cook. It's one of the traits Dad really admires about her.

Mom and Dad are very happily married, and they don't plan on being otherwise at any point. And also psychologists really skeeve my mom out, so I wouldn't advise any psychologists/guidance counselors/people who think about other people's minds to try and flirt with her.

Since they're happily married and all.

This is going downhill fast. I'm going to go and do some charity work for poor orphans in Romania now, and then possibly listen to some calming music while taking a bubble bath and meditating on the events of the day.

Also, if someone invites you to do drugs, you should just say no.

World Peace!

**It's kinda short, yeah, but at least it's an update, right? :-) Now please review. I especially love it when people give me their favorite lines (hint, hint). But, anyway, just let me know what you think, even if it's negative. Thanks to everybody who reads, especially to those who reviews. I love you guys! And stuff. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Okey-dokey. So hopefully I've reached a happy balance between humor and seriousness with this chapter. I like it pretty much, considering I just banged it out, and hopefully you guys will, too. :)**

**Disclaimer - Seven AM, waking up in the morning... Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs... Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal... Aaaaand now that I've officially got that song stuck in your head, enjoy! *angelic smile*  
><strong>

Dear Percival,

Um.

So.

Basically, my life is so boring right now that I've literally taken to brushing my teeth after every meal because there's nothing freaking else to do!

So now that I have blindingly clean pearly whites, Dad has decided to instruct me on how best to utilize 'the DiNozzo charm.'

Hi, Dad. If you've decided to join the party of diary snoopers and are reading this, I'd like you to know that you're a total loser. Even _Percy's_ cool in comparison.

(Percy's your new nickname, FYI. Don't take it as a compliment, though, bub. Go read _Harry Potter_ and get well-acquainted with your namesake. Then we'll see if you're still feeling so bright and shiny. Even though he _did_ redeem himself in the end... Right before... *sob*)

Yo, Mr. Douglas - if you want to talk about the most traumatic moments of my fifteen years, Fred Weasley's tragic plight would be prime candidate. Forget about the time I got accidentally locked in the closet for an hour while I was home alone (I was only _ten_, stop smirking, Percy!), this is real soul-shattering stuff!

Anyway, I forget where I was going with this.

Uh . . . *twiddles thumbs and attempts to reread horrid handwriting for a recap*

Oh, right. Dad's 'Charm School.'

Seriously. That's what he called it.

And of course Tarynn and Sasha are all like, "ZOMG LOL UR DAD IS SOOO FUNNY WITH HIS TERRIBLE PUNS," when I try to complain to them about it at lunch the next day.

And I'm like, "Dude. No. Don't even."

So of course, Sasha succeeds in making me want to barf up my sandwich by saying, "Your dad is so cool."

"Other end of the thermometer, sweetheart." That was Tarynn, who's smirking suggestively because, damn it, _she is sadistic_!

I faked gagging. Sasha beamed. "Dude, we should totally come and learn your Dad's ways."

(Read: We should totally come and giggle hysterically at every unfunny joke your dad makes, all the while blushing furiously and diminishing your stockpile of X-tra Cheezy Cheez Popz.)

I held up a finger. "Firstly, 'dude' is my thing. Stop stealing my jargon. Secondly, _hellz _to the no!"

They didn't listen. Instead, they showed up at my door yesterday afternoon (Friday) giggling and blushing and wearing Gryffindor snuggies, which just encouraged Daddy to use the 'Charm school' pun _again_. And they _laughed_, the traitors!

And then we spent two hours flashing pearly whites and cocking eyebrows and eating _all_ of the X-tra Cheezy Cheez Popz while Dad made us look stupid for his own amusement.

But, I mean, it was good in one sense, and that's why I was somehow stupid enough to invite them over again tonight for a sleepover.

It's been two weeks, and the house is really _quiet_.

Which means that if I happen (and this is all hypothetical, mind you) to - hem - fall down the stairs, because apparently dancing around on the stairwell while wearing fuzzy rainbow socks and listening to something hardcore that is _not_ by Taylor Swift is not advisable, it echoes through out the whole house and makes Dad laugh at me.

Jerk.

(I was fine, btdubs. Thanks for the concern...)

Anyway, that was part of the reason. At least with Tarynn and Sasha here, I can count on someone else to make a fool of themselves for a change.

And also because Dad gets _really_ into the movie debates he constantly is having with Tarynn, and then I can make fun of him and it's all a little more _normal_, y'know?

(And not at all because Shawn O'Reilly now has his learner's permit and takes every excuse he can to drive, and last time Tarynn came over he came in to say 'hi' and ended up staying and watching a whole movie with us, while sitting next to me on the couch... )

AHEM.

So, anyway, Tarynn and Sasha (and Shawn, shuddup, Percy) came over and we watched stupid movies and played Mario Cart and made pizza and it was actually pretty nice.

Dad was laughing, and it wasn't the fake kind, and Shawn sat next to me for most of the night and it was really pretty freaking awesome.

The fact that Dad was laughing was awesome, I mean. Since I honestly couldn't care less about where Shawn sat and stuff.

So now Sasha and Tarynn are asleep, and I'm taking a minute to write because my stomach is all fluttery. (From the pizza. Not from hugging a certain boy goodbye when he left.)

You want an update on Mom?

Sigh.

You picked up on the fact that I was specifically avoiding that topic, did you?

You want a medal or something?

Congrats, you're tactless. Whoop de doo.

Sigh.

Fine.

Okay. But only the facts, because I don't want to start crying while sharing a pull-out bed with two irritating, snoring friends.

Not that there's anything to cry about, since it's a simple undercover op, which Mossad and NCIS are working together on.

Basically, since Mom's undercover, she hasn't even been able to contact us, because that might blow her cover.

So that kinda sucks.

Grandpa Eli's been calling nightly to give us updates, but Dad says he's really just calling to inform us over and over again that we don't have the clearance to know what's actually going down.

In other words, Grandpa Eli's a bureaucratic jerk. At least, that's what Daddy says.

I wouldn't know, because Dad won't let me talk to him. I'm literally not allowed to pick up the phone anymore unless I recognize the number from Caller I.D.

And every time Dad gets off the phone, his face is all pinched and hard and he always ends up mutilating his pasta by handling his fork too forcefully.

Basically, all we've learned in two weeks is that she's, like, _alive_.

Also, we learned how _not_ to cook. We've melted pots and exploded a whole container of chili in the microwave and suffered third degree burns while attempting to heat the anonymous substance that is a breakfast burrito.

Today we had popcorn and homemade pizza, which actually tasted good, but only because Sasha finally taught Daddy how to work the oven properly. There's this whole stupid process about, like, pre-heating the oven or something, which we never even knew about.

So, anyway, the point is that we're coping.

Coping isn't necessarily very fun, but it could be worse. At least Grandpa Eli's taking the time to inform us that his only (living) daughter is still okay. At least she still _is_ okay.

Counting blessings and stuff, right?

God, this is so sappy. That chick-flick must've done something to my head. Anyway.

Going to sleep. G'night.

...

~Hi, this is the lovely Sasha Westerfield, reporting live from the DiNozzo-David's living room where an epic heist has just gone down!

_Hi, Percy! It's Tarynn! I'm back! Didja miss me?_

~Ahem. Tarynn, elaborate heist was your cue . . .

_Oh, right. Anyway, our elaborate heist basically involved us faking sleep in order to get our hands on you, Percival, dearest! _

~Still can't believe you fell for Tarynn's _painfully obvious_ fake snores, by the way...

_She was probably too busy mooning over MY BROTHER to notice... And they were not THAT bad!_

~Uh, yeah. They were.

_Shut up, Sasha. I mean, what's up with that anyway, you loser? I thought we swore Shawny-boy was off-limits! DOES THE SOUL OF OUR DEAR, DEPARTED MR. SHARK BAIT MONTANA MEAN NOTHING TO YOU?_

~May he rest in peace.

_Amen. Anyway, I'm tired, so I'm going to bed. BUT THIS IS IN NO WAY OVE-_

~Tarynn is so angry that she was writing too violently and she just exploded her pen all over her pajama pants. I'm taking over while she steals a pair of yours and finds a new pen.

_I'm back. It's okay, those were Shawn's sweats anyway. They're in your bathtub now, soaking. If I find you in there, like, smelling them or serenading them or something I will punch you in the face. _

~Anyway, g'night. I love you!

_You snore. For realz, gurrl. Anyway, I love you, even though you DO like my brother. We will discuss this in the morning, skippy. _

Love,

~Sasha  
><em>And<br>Tarynn_

__**Well? Feedback, please? Do we like my random guest stars? If so, I could occasionally throw in a blurb from Tarynn and Sasha, or maybe even Shawn or Tony... Yes? No? How 'bout favorite lines? **

**Oh, and I have a few dedications, too. This one's for Lyrander215, who wrote me a gosh-darn awesome review full of randomness and immense amounts of copy-pasting, as well as my BFFL and newest NCIS convert mangagirl135, and my sister, who has officially proven that a tendency to leave rambling reviews does, in fact, run in the family. :) Love you all!  
><strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, no time to chat - I'm sneaking this in before I rejoin the family scene below. I really like this chapter, I hope you do, too. Please review with comments, complaints, etc. Seriously, you guys know the drill. I gots to go. Tootles. **

**Disclaimer - No time to say hello, goodbye - I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!  
><strong>

That awkward moment when you're home alone one random afternoon, procrastinating about homework while streaming episodes of Sherlock and texting Sasha (and, yeah, Shawn...), and you answer the phone after ensuring the number does not belong to either a telemarketer or a kidnapper only to find yourself making stunted conversation with your estranged Israeli grandfather while undergoing extreme brain freeze.

Derp.

Basically, it went like this:

There I was, lost in the world of bromance and mint chocolate chip (straight from the carton, baby, that's how I roll!) when the phone rings.

I said something like "Hello" or "DiNozzo residence" or possibly a garbled "H'lo" because of my mouthful of ice cream.

"Has my daughter taught you no conversational etiquette?"

And, I mean, COME ON. That's something straight out of a horror movie about, like, an unsuspecting teenage girl who becomes caught in a deadly game of cat and mouse whilst home alone one dark and stormy night.

Seriously. What kind of GRANDFATHER starts a conversation like a freaking AXE MURDERER?

So, okay. I MEEPed into the phone.

You know, a MEEP.

Like a whimper. Noise. Thing. . . Look, I'm not proud of it, okay?

Anyway, I MEEPed, and then I said, "Um. Sorry, I think you've got a wrong number . . . "

"Obviously you have inherited your FATHER'S lying skills . . . Or lack thereof," continued the accented mystery voice.

Well, excu-use me, but I was not going to let some random, obnoxious potential-serial killer go and bash mah Daddy like that! So I mustered my meanest voice, which is usually reserved solely for awkward encounters with the two juniors who make out in front of my locker every morning, and retorted:

"Yeah, and you know what else? My dad also taught me how to kick people's asses, so . . . "

I admit, I kind of trailed off lamely at the end there, but overall I thought it was pretty impressive, so I took a huge spoonful of ice cream to celebrate . . . and possibly miscalculated the precise ice cream-to-square centimeter of mouth ratio.

Basically, by the time the jerk with the accent had chuckled and said, "I see you have your mother's fierce streak," my brain had gone into meltdown mode.

Trying not to scream or, like, barf icicles, I snarled, "Okay, who the hell is this and what is freaking UP with your fixation on my genealogy? I mean, DUDE."

Only I didn't actually say FREAKING, if you know what I mean . . . I mean, I was going for intimidation. You don't censor your words whilst frightening away potential creepers.

He didn't chuckle this time, simply said, "This is your grandfather."

Well, C to the RAP.

"Um." I swallowed. "Hi, uh . . . Grandpa? Um. How- how are you? And stuff."

"I am quite well, thank you," said Grandpa Eli smoothly in the achingly familiar accent that I had always associated with gentle, long-fingered brown hands and the smell of laundry detergent and pomegranate shampoo. "And you?"

Um. Having a panic attack. Missing my Sherlock- and Shawn-time (oh, and Sasha...). My brain's rapidly turning to a glacier as I mindlessly shovel more ice cream into my agape mouth. Polar bears and penguins are taking up a happy residence.

"Good," I settled for finally, opting to avoid adding any or all of the above, as well as the fact that I missed Mom so much that my chest ached when I tried to inhale deeply.

"That is good to hear."

I absentmindedly noted that the condensation from the ice cream carton cradled between my legs was making me look as though I'd peed myself. Attractive, I know.

"Um," I continued, getting to my feet and cradling the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I wrestled the top back onto the gallon carton and headed for the kitchen, "my dad is actually at work right now but I could, like, take a message for you, if you want."

"Certainly," he agreed. "I was just calling to inform your father that nothing new has occurred. Unfortunately that is all I am permitted to tell you . . . "

"So she's, like, okay?" I reaffirmed anxiously, returning the ice cream to the freezer and rooting around in the cabinets for something else unhealthy to gorge myself on.

"Yes."

"But nothing new happened with the case?" I continued, starting to get a sinking feeling in my gut.

"I am afraid I can't disclose that-"

"When's she coming home?"

The question tore out of me before I could debate its practicality, and my voice sounded all weird and childlike and worried, which was gross and embarrassing, when I said it.

Grandpa Eli sighed, the noise crackling over the phone line. "Sometimes, tateleh," he said quietly, "people are forced to make sacrifices for those they love. Your mother is working in the hopes that one day you will not have to leave your family and risk your life as she does. And I understand-"

"Is that what YOU told HER?" I challenged, irritable. "When you left? Is that why you never come to visit us now? Because you're too busy being Superman or whatever?"

Don't look at me like that, Percy. So what if he's my grandpa? I've heard Daddy talk about him, and I know a jerk when I hear one. He SO had it coming to him.

Plus, I don't know, okay? I miss my mom. I miss her, and this guy was the one who took her away from me. And I had a brain freeze! Temporary insanity plea and all that, right?

"I regret," answered Grandpa Eli slowly, "many things in my life. But I will have you know that it is not I who insists on distancing a father from his only living daughter, his only granddaughter. It was a pleasure speaking with you, tateleh. I hope it will not be our last exchange. "

And then the dude hung up before I could say something snotty in return.

I ended up perching on the counter, eating these really stale, yet weirdly good chocolate-covered-craisinette thingies that were probably way expired, and possibly crying.

But just a little.

...

Dude.

Only living daughter.

That's what he freaking said.

Only LIVING daughter.

Which, like, implies that there were, in fact, more than one to begin with.

Okay. Just had an epiphany. Right here, on the couch, eating expired chocolate craisins. Forget Sherlock, I'VE got some investigating to do . . .

...

On second thought, these craisins are totally not doing it for me.

I'm actually really nauseous.

Anyway, I found a news article. It's really short, since this all happened in Israel, like, forever ago, but this is the gist of it:

Tali David.

Aged sixteen.

Killed in a roadside bombing years and years ago, when Mom was only like twenty.

And no one even freaking thought to TELL me this?

I mean, yeah, my parents treat me like babies, but . . .

But not to tell me that my own mother had a sister? Who was murdered?

Seriously, what the hell is this? Don't they trust me AT ALL?

I don't eve-

...

Hi.

I'm back.

Yeah, I just threw up all over the coffee table. I guess those craisins really were expired.

Anyway, Dad's coming home early to take care of me. Until then I am very firmly going to lose myself in a Sherlock episode.

...

It's really late, but I can't sleep, because this room is like a million degrees and my skin is burning with goosebumps, so here I am.

Goody for you.

Anyway, I didn't tell Dad about Grandpa Eli's call. Partly because I didn't have the time to, what with all the retching that's been going down (or rather, all the STUFF that's been coming UP), but partly 'cause I know how much he hates the guy and I really don't want to make his day worse than it already is.

Did I mention I managed to puke almost entirely on his Fight Club DVD, which was lying on the coffee table, along with my Biology textbook?

Yeah, he's happy. So's my Bio teacher.

But anyway, now I think he's worried that he has yet to hear from Eli about Mom, because he's still awake. I can hear the TV from upstairs.

My muscles are really achy, considering I haven't done anything particularly exerting recently. It even hurts to write, but I can't sleep.

I wish Ima was here. Her hands were always really soft and smooth, and when I was little and I got sick she would sit up all night and sing to me and smooth my forehead with her cool hands.

I mean, if there's one I've never doubted, it's that my parents love me.

But I don't get how they could lie to me for all these years. I mean, a lie of omission. But still. I mean, what next?

Next I'm gonna find out they've been lying to me about, like, Santa being real or someth-

...

I just threw up again. Luckily I made it to the bathroom this time, though.

Dad held my hair back for me. His hands are bigger and warm, but they're not really so bad, and he's setting up a bed for me downstairs on the couch so I can watch movies and rest in between trips to the toilet.

Okay, he's pretty awesome.

I'll start holding grudges in the morning.

...

So apparently it wasn't the craisinettes after all.

Yeah, I've got influenza of the yucky, stomach variety. My friendly neighborhood pediatrician has spoken.

Life sucks. I have thrown up every bit of mint chocolate chip ice cream I devoured last night, as well as what feels like several of my larger intestines.

I haven't told Dad about Grandpa. I mean, he lied to me about (Aunt?) Tali. It's only fair.

Or whatever. I'm taking a nap.

G'bye.

...

Grandpa Eli called again.

Dad talked to him. Mom's still fine, Eli's still refusing to elaborate, and there was no mention of my conversation with him.

Good.

Dad took the day off. We watched some movies and he made me toast and soup for lunch. (Both of which I have since vomited up, but it's the thought that counts, right?)

I think he feels guilty for not, like, taking better care of me or something, but that's really stupid. I got my flu shot and everything, and if I allowed some runny-nosed sicko to breathe his germs on me by mistake, then so be it.

I told him so, but he kinda just made some noncommittal jokes about trivial things and changed the subject.

Men.

Sigh.

Don't pretend to sympathize - I'm fairly certain you're male as well.

You are, right?

Ooh, Shawn just texted me! G2G!

Oh, wait, just kidding . . . It's only a forward. :(

Well, I'm gonna go sleep some more, and hopefully not puke.

Luffle you.

Buh-bye.

**Wellz? Let me know, okay? Thanks to all my reviewers. Luffe chu. :) **


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey... I haven't updated in over a month... Sorry. I had finals and basically everything I've been writing has totally disgusted me. I don't even like this update, but I felt bad, so. Yeah. Goin' on vacay for a week now. I'll see if I can get my mojo back... Then we'll talk. Btw, the collaboration story I'm working on? Yeah, it's up. I'll see if I can put the link in my profile, kay?**

**Disclaimer: GAH WHERE HAVE ALL MY FUNNIES GONE?  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Dear Percy-pants,<p>

Hee. I amuse myself sometimes.

Anyway.

Greetings.

I didn't die from the stomach flu. (I did lose five pounds, though, which is kind of awesome... I don't _feel_ any skinnier... Do I _look_ any skinnier?)

I didn't die at all, in fact.

Hurray!

The other day was Father's Day. Me and Dad were total bros. We went out to breakfast and then we went to the zoo and I bought him a stuffed zebra as a present. It's really soft.

I sent Grandpa Eli a card.

It had a random, smiling rhinoceros on it. It was reading the newspaper.

I don't know why I found it so fitting, nor do I know why I was motivated to send it.

But, like, he was a Dad, you know? Maybe a lousy one, but I felt like he deserved _something._

So I gave him a rhinoceros.

I'm sure he's very grateful.

Inside the card it said HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, so I just signed my name, covered the envelope with airmail stamps, and sneakily stuck it in the mailbox when Dad had his face buried in pancakes.

Anyway. I don't know why I felt the need to tell you this, but . . .

In other news... Brian has abandoned his puppy-dog crush on me in favor of Sasha. She's thrilled. So'm I, sarcastically and genuinely respectively.

Yeah. Still miss my mom.

Still maybe/possibly like Shawn a little/miniscule/teeny bit.

Haven't mentioned the whole Grandpa Eli/Tali thing to anyone... Not sure if I'm going to. My life's got more than enough angst already, thank you very much.

Zebras are cute.

That is all.

...

Dear Percival,

This is a rant about the stupidity of love, and the woeful effect it has on girls and boys alike.

Be warned.

Anyway, I have composed a list.

This is because a) lists make me really happy and b) why the hell not. Also c) I have this inky pen that is really awesome to draw those little bullet things with.

So.

My List of Reasons Why the Foolish, Hormone-Induced Emotion Dubbed 'Love' (With Mocking Quotation Marks For Emphasis) Is Stupid:

- Um. Have you _read_ "Romeo and Juliet"?

If not, don't. Seriously, I don't know why they say it's the love story of a millennium (or is that Twilight) because, seriously?

Romeo is a pansy. And he falls in love with anything with two legs and a female reproductive system. Including Juliet. Who's thirteen.

This, to me, sounds nearly as pedophilic, unrealistic, and enjoyable (sarcasm tharr) as Twilight.

But that was not the point of this bullet.

I forget the point, actually.

So, here, have this pointless blurb of ranting about the horrors of ninth grade lit class.

You're welcome.

- Ooh! Another stupid thing about love is that it rhymes with like everything sappy so it just works perfectly in every freaking song on the radio.

Seriously. Go listen to a Taylor Swift song. Any Taylor Swift song - all her albums are on my iPod, go listen to one. (Shut up. So what if I actually really like her?)

But still. It's all love and love song and fairytales and schtuff.

- People get depressed over it.

Like, my friend's always like 'Oh nobody will ever love me I'm gonna grow up and live alone with several hundred hamsters and a bug-watching manual so I can identify the countless species of bugs that will be populating my unswept floors and all the bugs will sing happily and repopulate the earth each time I step on one with my fuzzy slippers which I will never wash and even the hamster will laugh at my misery' but, like, seriously?

I mean, obviously Sasha's psychotic and she was kidding about the hamsters, since she's allergic to just about everything but naked mole rats. Plus, her parents are divorced and kinda a wreck, but...

I mean, so no one loves you. Boohoo. Buy a dog. They're not picky. . . Not to mention way cuter than most of the male population, _and_ they never leave the toilet seat up!

Like, why does it really matter? Why is it so important for other people to love you? Why can't your own opinions of yourself be enough?

Yeah, yeah, says the psycho girl who writes in a pink diary and hasn't had a manicure since her fifth grade 'moving-up' ceremony when she accidentally punched the Korean lady in the nose when she attempted to massage my shoulders.

But, seriously.

Love is just a reaffirmation of self-worth for people who are too insecure to know how awesome they are.

- These bullets are way too long

- From now on they're gonna be short and concise

- If love is so special, how come half the marriages end in divorce?

- Huh?

- Gotcha there, didn't I?

- Oh, let's just make this clear - by love I mean like 'lovey-dovey' romance, since obviously I have parents and three goldfish who love me

- Anyway.

- Love makes people do stupid things.

Example Numero Uno - "Romeo and Juliet" (again). Dude's all like, "Alas! My wife who I met two days ago is dead! Let me slaughter myself because obviously there is no way I can live without this thirteen year old girl whose virginity I stole."

Only it rhymed and stuff when he said it.

And then Juliet's like, "Psych! I'm not dead!"

And Romeo's like, "Crap, I already swallowed this poison. Just promise me you'll live a long and happy-"

And then Juliet's all "KABLAM WITH THE KNIFE!"

And basically everyone dies.

Oh, yeah. Spoiler alert. :)

Example Number Two - I totally tried to pluck my eyebrows yesterday. And, like, they weren't even that bad originally, 'cause apparently I inherited Mom's _'naturally sculpted'_ brows, but I thought it was a good idea 'cause I was maybe going to see Tarynn and Shawn later that night...

My forehead feels so naked.

Like a plucked bird.

Or a naked person.

Needless to say, I did not go out that night. Or the next night.

I'm going to lock myself in a closet and not come out until my eyebrows grow back.

Dad says it's not that bad.

Dad is a _liar_.

A bad one, at that.

- I would like to establish that this whole rant is because I have a practically bald forehead right now.

- Sure, love's great. Whatever. Go ask Kim Kardashian if you want any further elaboration.

...

Heyyyyy.

So my eyebrows are almost back to normal.

Yesterday I wore sunglasses to school to hide them and when the teachers told me to take them off, I just hid my face behind a text book.

Actually, first I informed the teachers that I was blind and that, therefore, they were all guilty of discrimination, but no one believed me.

So for the rest of the day I just smudged my nose up against a picture of Hitler in my history textbook and embraced the irony of a Jew (well, a half-Jewish person) wiping her nose all over him.

I feel like I really did something for my ancestors yesterday.

Anyway, today is a better day.

Actually, today's a really good day.

Wanna know why?

'Course you do.

But, actually, it's not really anything...

Hmm...

Tell me, Percival, if you were texting a male (who you are rather partial towards) about roller coasters (because obviously you don't know how to flirt) and you mentioned how you'd never been to Hershey Park and then he said (and I quote) "_I'll take you there someday,"_ coupled with a little smiley face, would you consider that flirting?

Or is that just Shawn being Shawn?

(Oops, I said his name... Not so hypothetical anymore... )

And so then of course I replied something eloquent and fittingly ambiguously-flirty like _'I would scream until your eardrums exploded.'_

And then we started talking about pink earmuffs.

Ahh, young love . . .

...

Bleep.

Bloop.

RANDOM KEYBOARD SPASMS OF OMG EXCITEMENT I AM SO EXCITED AHHHH OMG AHDSJSJNMSJNMDEKSB JJS SIKANSB IK BANJO-PLAYING LEPRECHAUNS JJKKMJNHBDHJSIKIKS

(And, yeah, I _did_ just handwrite keyboard smash. Like a boss.)

Stop. Stop judging me and listen.

LISTEN TO THIS AMAZING NEWS OF AMAZINGNESS IN WHICH ALL IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD

_MY MOTHER IS RETURNING! _VICTORIOUSLY! TRIUMPHANTLY! SHE'S COMING HOME AHHHHHHHHHHHH OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

Insert smiley faces of ecstasy.  
>Basically, it's happening. The case is cracked and she's coming home in four days and <em>MY LIFE COULD NOT GET ANY BETTER RIGHT NOW AHHHHHHHHHHHHH<em>

Even my bald eyebrows are singing happily in celebration!

I have to go dance around in my yard like a rabid Chihuahua that is high on caffeine. Excuse me.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah, figured you guys deserved that at least :) for waiting around for so long. Plus it's Chapter Ten and you guys are amazing with your reviews (which I've stopped responding to - I'M SORRY!) and so yeah. Please review with your favorites lines, et cetera. Also you could just yell at me about updating. Seriously, it'll probably help. <strong>

**And puh-lease go check out my collaboration fic if you have even a slight interest in the Hunger Games. My chapter's not up yet, but all these people are OMG SO TALENTED so you won't regret it.  
><strong>

**And that is all. :)  
><strong>


	11. Chapter 11

***awkward finger wave thing* Heyyyy guys... *is immediately massacred by the miniscule amount of people who have put up with my low-quality writing and atrocious updating habits* OW. So, um... heh. Sorry. Like, SO SORRY OMG. I just... well, I guess I lost interest in the fandom over the hiatus and I've just been so dissatisfied with my writing lately that I couldn't bring myself to update or even really to write. And I'm so, so sorry, but hopefully I'll be able to get back into the swing of things now that the show's on again. Even this chapter isn't too fabulous, but I think anyone who's still left'll like the end :) **

**Review and I swear I'll reply. Also, if you've PMed me and I haven't replied to you - I'M SORRY! I love you all so dearly, and I'm trying to get back on top of things. So... *awkwardly changes the subject* HOW ABOUT THAT SEASON PREMIERE, EH? **

* * *

><p><em>Hi, Percy! Guess who it is! It's Tarynn!<em>

**And me!**

_Shut up, Shawn. No one likes you anyway_.

**I happen to like myself very much, actually. I find I look especially sexy when I brush my teeth. **

_So, like, never? _

**Actually, sister dear, the dental hygienist complimented me on being relatively plaque-free only last week. **

_Let's all just take a moment and ponder why my best friend, who usually is a bit more sensible and un-girly about matters such as these, fell in love with you, of all people._

**I'm telling you, it was the teeth brushing face. It never fails. **

_We're going to ignore Shawn from now on, okay, Percy? _

**But Percy's my bro! We're-**

Percy is too effeminate for bros. Tarynn, I hate you. Shawn, I don't think anyone can look sexy while spitting saliva and foamy toothpaste residue into a bathroom sink, nor have I ever seen you brush your teeth before. So.

**Ah, Sleeping Beauty has awoken! And ripped the pen from my hand! **

_Shawn, stop trying to be flirty. Love, Tarynn._

**Dear Tarynn, if I was trying to be flirty, I'd whip out my toothbrush, not a Disney reference. Love, Shawn**

Why are you guys even here? Percy, just so you know, it's legit two in the morning right now. And these losers were definitely not here earlier this evening when I made my panicked exodus from the living room, down the darkened hallway to my bedroom, having unwisely watched a truly frightening Criminal Minds episode all by myself. (Dad wasn't invited because he never fails in scoffing at their procedural flaws, nor can be resist quoting Inigo Montoya whenever Jason Gideon makes an appearance.)

_Geez, write much, loser?_

Shut up, Tarynn. This is MY dia- um. journal. Now answer my question already - why are you here?

**Our apartment's water supply got shut off randomly again and Tarynn had to pee really badly, but she refused to man up and just go in the bushes, so then we drove to Wendy's to use the bathroom, but it turns out Wendy is a liar. Only the drive-through is open 24/7, so we couldn't use their bathroom. **

_I was afraid that a bear was gonna come and get me and I wouldn't be able to run with my pants around my ankles! So then we came here because Shawn also wanted to figure out what shampoo you use because he's a stalk-_

**That's a lie!**

_Ahem. Thank you for ripping the pen away, Shawn. Anyway, then I peed and Shawn sniffed all your hair products (you have unhealthy amounts, BTW) and then I crawled under your bed 'cause I was gonna try and scare you, but then we found Percy and decided to invade your privacy instead. _

**That was Tarynn's idea, too. Just saying. **

I have a question. Why aren't we just conversing out-loud like normal people?

**Because we don't want to exclude Percy**!

_Or wake up your extremely attractive father. _

Tarynn! He's old! And married!

_So? Shawn thinks your mom is pretty! _

SHAWN!

**Hem. I never said that! **

_He did. We have in-depth discussions about your bizarrely attractive parents all the time. He's a fangirl. _

**At least I never asked for an autograph!**

_I was twelve! My hormones were wacked up!_

Tarynn, if I find you snooping around my dad's bedroom door I will shoot you with the gun I found yesterday.

_You found a gun? An actual working, bang-bang gun?_

Yeppers. Mom must've forgotten it when she left. It was in the box of a really old game of Clue that we had in our closet.

**That's ironic. **

She has a bizarre sense of humor. Are you guys going to go home now? Please?

_You'd think she didn't love us, Shawn!_

I don't. Now PUH-LEASE. Go home. And stop taking up pages in my precious Percy. You're over-tiring him! He's delicate!

_Fine. Lemme just use the bathroom. _

**Again?**

_Shawn! Don't call attention to the frequency of my bathroom breaks! That's private! _

**It's her time of the month.**

_IT IS NOT! _

...

Dear Percival,

It was at this point in our written conversation late last night that the darling O'Reilly siblings were forcibly escorted off the premises by yours truly.

I was super intimidating. Even Tarynn said so. Shawn said I'd make a good bouncer.

No, Percy, I did not blush. Shut up.

Oh, but seriously, the above conversation... Percy, you're a man. Ish.

What's your opinion? Flirty? Or just me being hormonal?

Anything you'd like to add, Mr. Douglas?

I'm pathetic, aren't I? I'm not even sure whether or not I even _want_ him to like me!

I think that Mom better hurry home and start counseling her daughter on this... schtuff. Because, seriously, if Dad winks suggestively at me _one more time_-

He did. He literally just winked at me again and told me that if I'm going to be 'making this midnight rendezvous thing a nightly event' I should probably instruct 'Shawny-boy' in the art of _quietly_ flushing the toilet.

Dad purports himself to be some sort of ninja in the arts of 'wooing' (I'm not lying, that was his choice of word) and he said he's more than willing to help me and my 'lad' perfect our own dynamic.

A dynamic consists, apparently, of pet names - "sweetcheeks, for example, is an old classic that never fails to infuriate your mother" - as well as playful banter and favorite forms of displaying affection.

At which point the man asked if I'd prefer to await my mother's imminent return for the infamous 'talk' or if I'd like to just get it over with.

That stain on the left corner of your page? Yeah, that's from when I snorted my cereal milk out my nose.

"Dad," I said finally, "Shawn and I are not dating."

He looked at me for a while. "You should know, I'm a federal agent trained in the art of detecting lies, and am equipped with the inherent DiNozzo knack for 'amore.'"

I tried to explain that, alas, Shawn only loves me for my working plumbing, but Dad would have none of that.

Now he's ranting about the sacrilege of an Irishman marrying an Italian.

Mom. Come home and freaking help me already.

...

ONE DAY MORE!

ANOTHER DAWN, ANOTHER DESTINY!

Sorry. Sometimes the Les Miz feelz just overwhelm me. Anyway, the point is ONLY ONE MORE DAY!

_Mah Momma's comin' home! _

Like, I'm so excited. I know Dad's really excited, too, even though all he's done is command we go on an emergency cleaning spree to try and convince Mom that we didn't, in fact, do any permanent damage to the house, namely the kitchen appliances.

We haven't yet been able to scrape the breakfast burrito residue off the insides of the microwave, but we're working on it.

...

Wellp.

Today I ate a frozen toaster strudel without putting it in the toaster first.

Yep.

Solid day. Watched a YouTube video of Justin Bieber vomiting. Repeatedly. Watched some _Here Comes Honey Boo Boo_ on television while Dad laughed hysterically and cracked redneck jokes and Mom lamented about society and questioned the logic and meaning of the term 'redneck.'

...Oh, did I forget to mention that part? The part WHERE MY MOM IS HOME?

Yep. She came home yesterday evening, almost exactly twenty-four hours ago.

...No, I did not _cry_! ...much... Well, it wasn't in public! I mean, unless you consider the airport public. Or the diner where we then went and ate dinner. Or the car.

THEY WERE HAPPY TEARS, OBVIOUSLY, BECAUSE I AM IMMENSELY HAPPY.

Dad was happy, too. He and Mom totally pulled a chick-flick ending and had a very touching embrace at the airport. Which is when I promptly began to sob.

And then I had to avert my eyes and pretend I was inspecting the half-eaten pastry substance under a nearby seat in the waiting room, because obviously this was a very much PG-13 rated chick-flick, if not Restricted.

Tarynn and Sasha wanted me to film it, but I refused. Because no doubt they'd post it on YouTube and with my luck it'd get a million views for being _omg so super adorbs_ and then my parents'd probably end up being interviewed on the Today show or something...

Which would be admittedly awesome, because Matt Lauer, _hello_.

Dang it. I so should've filmed it.

But _anyway_ the point was it was sickeningly adorable and I cried and today we closeted ourselves away and watched TLC and ate frozen toaster strudels and made banana bread from scratch as a big happy family and Mom has yet to notice the breakfast burrito residue on the innards of the microwave - so, _bonus_.

Tonight, after another home-made meal of domestic happiness and spaghetti, I am sleeping over at Aunt Abby's.

My parents want some 'alone time.' The skeptical quotation marks are implied, but Dad's eyebrows made their meaning very clear.

He did it on purpose, too, because he just enjoys mentally torturing me by being all suggestive about what exactly 'alone time' involves...

NO, WE ARE NOT FOLLOWING THAT TRAIN OF THOUGHT. IN FACT, WE ARE MAKING LIKE HOBOS AND JUMPING OFF THAT TRAIN ENTIRELY AND GOING TO DO SOMETHING MUCH MORE PRODUCTIVE LIKE WATCHING J-BIEBS THROW UP.

Bye.

...

So this is like out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Did you know Auntie Abby and McUncle are romantically involved?

ME NEITHER

UNTIL NOW

Obviously, they're much more discreet that the crude, hormonal teenagers who call themselves my parents, but still. The love is in the air. Like the Disney song. I'd start singing, except the walls of Aunt Abby's apartment are notoriously thin and this way attractive college guy lives next door.

You know. AWKWARD.

On a happier note, there is a pizza man at the door and I have to go profess my love to him. Later, Haters.

* * *

><p><strong>So, you know, SORRY. For this and everything else. Please do review, though. Yell at me all you want, I'd like to know people are still reading. And a little reassurance that a lot of this disgustedness is all in my head *crosses fingers* Luffe you all SO MUCH! <strong>

**~ Styx**


	12. Chapter 12

***Awesomely updating on a random day of the week without being about two months late* I actually really like this chapter. It's actiony. And I actually really LOVE you guys for those marvellous, inspiring, forgiving reviews you gave me last chapter. Keep it up, folks! And I, in turn, will attempt to keep up the updates!**

**This one goes out to my fabulous friend Maggie, because we don't talk enough anymore! Sorry, bb! **

**Disclaimer - Gesundheit**

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><p>Dear Percy,<p>

What's shakin', Jamaican?

Hee. I've been saving that one up for the opportune moment for several weeks now. *giggles stupidly over funniness*

*abruptly sobers* Anyway. Have I mentioned that moms are, like, these awesome things?

Yeah, totes. They do your laundry and don't mix up the dishwasher soap with the laundry detergent, and they uproot dust bunnies from under rugs, and they find your hairbrushes when you somehow end up somehow leaving them in a kitchen cabinet, and they generally aren't male, which makes things such as laundry far less awkward.

It's a good thing Mom came back when she did, actually, since I'd used just about every clean bra in my possession. Then I'd either have had to face the awkwardness of bringing down that basket of joy for Dad to clean, or break out my training bras from fifth grade. And I'm flat, but I'm not _that_ flat...

Anyway, the point is that mothers are wonderful things.

Note to self, we should be sure to remember Mother's day this time around... And maybe even give Mom something of actual value, instead of an offer to do dishes or - the ultimate cop-out - a "Mother's Day hug."

But that's not for months anyway, and by then the novelty'll probably have worn off, so that is why today I am going to celebrate the one-week anniversary of my mother _not_ being in a freaking war zone with pancakes.

For dinner, obviously, because there was no way I was waking up early on a _Sunday_. Besides, it's cooler this way. And now we can put chocolate in the pancakes without Mom saying all responsible-like that chocolate is not a food we should eat in the early morning.

Mom's weirdly domestic-y for an ex-ninja.

So, you know, just letting you know that I plan on making pancakes, if only to further postpone Mom from having to defrost chicken in the microwave and therefore discovering that stubborn burrito residue that persists in sticking crustily to everything.

Yep.

* * *

><p>Whattup, Perce.<p>

The pancakes went over well. I did end up dropping one into the crack between the oven and the cabinet, but Mom didn't notice, so score.

And the chocolate was abundant.

Still, it was kind of weird, 'cause I'm pretty sure Mom was feeling guilty about something. She petted my fuzzy, it's-the-weekend-so-I-refuse-to-brush-my-hair-on-principle hair, and heaped on the compliments like whipped cream on Dad's pancakes.

And that somehow made me feel guilty, like I was doing something that made her sad, and as a result I only ate like six pancakes.

Don't make that face, Percy, that's a slow day for me... It is _not_ disgusting!

Leaving now.

Good day, sir!

* * *

><p>Dear Perci,<p>

Today we're spelling your name with an 'i' cause you a hipster like that, bro.

No, we're really just spelling your name like that 'cause my brain died and I accidentally put an 'i' where the 'y' belonged. Like I actually care anyway.

So. What do you want to talk about today? We could discuss the apple cider donut I had last night for dessert (after the pancakes, yes)... or we could talk about the horrendous experience I had in gym today when my lovely gym teacher sprung upon us a surprise physical exam and made us run two miles.

Yes, let's briefly talk over that doozy, why don't we?

Well, normally I'm in pretty good shape, because Mom makes me run with her during the summers and I play field hockey in the fall (so I can hit people's shins with sticks) but yesterday this girl Emily, who is our _bestest_ friend when she's bearing edible gifts, made slutty brownies.

Let me tell you, those things are _GOD_ in brownie/cookie/crushed Oreo form... with a slightly promiscuous name, granted, but godly all the same.

So I ate like ten zillion. And six.

And then we had to go dash madly around the track like- like unhappy elves being chased by larger, carnivorous elves, and I ended up throwing up.

Which was, like, horrendous. And gross. And a waste of only semi-digested brownie, though it probably did prevent me from gaining like fifty pounds.

But then Mom picked me up, 'cause obviously I was gonna utilize the heck out of an honest-to-gosh reason to leave school, and dropped me off at home, and it was all pretty awesome. I was feeling better, and I had another three brownies in my book bag leftover (read: stolen) from lunch, and _Long Island Medium_ was on...

But...

Mom was looking kind of anxious, and she kept asking oh-so-casually if I was sure I didn't want to come back to the office and chill in Auntie Abby's lab, which obviously I didn't when Teresa was goin' around doin' her psychic thing.

Eventually she left, but she made a big show of leaving the house phone next to me and ensuring the neighbors were home first, and it got me thinking...

I'm pretty sure Mom's still feeling guilty, thus over-protective, of me because she was gone for a couple of weeks.

I don't know how to make her stop doing that without, like, having an awkwardly touchy-feely conversation about motherly love and... Ick. But for now I'm gonna just try to be as nice and cuddly and affectionate as possible without being way obvious about it.

And that is my plan.

Just letting you know.

Kbye.

* * *

><p>Crap.<p>

Tarynn just texted me. Tomorrow we have to do some absurd amount of push-ups and pull-ups in gym class for the PE test. Push-ups. On a Friday.

And we can't even do easy girl push-ups, 'cause Sasha went all feminist on the teacher and insisted girls are just good as boys...

That's what happens when your best friend's mother is a former hippy.

I may be faking sick tomorrow.

* * *

><p>Well, I survived.<p>

And I'm actually not just talking about the push-ups.

Which were horrible, Percy, _horrible_. I currently have a bag of peas on each shoulder and a father across the room telling me that Imma have to get used to physical pain if I ever want to graduate from the academy.

Mom's making snarky remarks about Dad's own physical condition. She's in a snippy mood because she found the burrito guts. And also probably because of the other thing that happened.

The other thing was, believe it or not, even more intense than the dang push-ups.

So, here's what happened:

Me: *home alone after school*  
>*breaking into Mom and Dad's bathroom*<br>*using Mom's curling iron*  
>*<em>not<em> hoping that Shawn'll compliment my soon-to-be awesome actual-on-purpose curls*  
>*humming a happy tune*<p>

Random Evil Person: GNARRR!

Well, no, actually he was way quieter than that, since he was sneaking about like the baddy that he is. But it was very threatening all the same.

REP: *shuffling about in Mom and Dad's desk drawer*  
>*general evilness*<p>

Me: *happy tune, happy tune, happy-*  
>*muffles shriek*<br>*tries to peek around bathroom door*  
>*burns ear with curling iron*<br>*does not muffle shriek*

REP: Well, hello there, little girl...

He didn't say that. But I can't really express the menace in his silence without resorting to awesome, weirdly creepy clichés.

REP: *starts walking toward me*  
>*haz a gun*<p>

Me: *realizes cell phone is charging in room, home phone is in the bedroom*

Random Evil Person: *moves to block the doorway*  
>*not smiling*<br>*evilness*  
>*reaches with one arm, maybe for his gun*<p>

And then I did the most awesome and accidental, instinctual thing I've ever done in my entire life, other than that time I accidentally invented peanut butter and pretzel goldfish sandwiches in kindergarten snack time.

I smacked the guy in the arm with Mom's super-expensive industrial curling iron, which had reached a heat extreme enough to curl even my puffle of frizzy hair.

Let's all just take a moment to revel in the creative brilliance of my actions... ... ...Okay? Okay. Good.

So then he screamed and jumped back and skin sizzled and I slammed the bathroom door and locked it and possibly screamed into the shower curtain while dropping Mom's curling iron into the open toilet and ruining my only weapon and sole chance at normal hair in one fell swoop.

What did I do, you ask, Percy?

Yes, you did.

You did so ask!

...shut up.

What I did next was even smarter, I tell you, and simultaneously scary as hell. Shaking all over and trying not to cry, I fumbled around under the sink with deadened fingers and retrieved the gun from the tampax box.

Then I opened the door super fast and did that whole swivelly, secret-agent movement to ensure the room was clear. I checked the whole house like a brave person.

Then I called Mom and locked all the doors and windows and pushed the refrigerator into the way of the front door and cried.

Dad came and got me - he had to use the back door on account of the refrigerator - and we went back to NCIS. He bought me one of pretty much everything in the vending machine, and I ate mechanically and shook.

When Mom stopped by to check on me, he said that I was definitely her daughter, because I was a freaking ninja, and that I'd almost brained him with the gun when I accidentally attacked him from behind by jumping off the landing between the first and second floor.

I think she's mad at me. She just sort-of smiled and said she had to go talk to Gibbs and Vance in MTAC. She also stole a package of my fruit snacks, but they were grape, so it's okay.

Dad said Mom's upset because she doesn't want me to have to lead the sort of life she did, where the parent's actions put the kids in danger.

Flashback to the Very Important Tali Discovery.

Dad doesn't know I know, obviously, and I didn't mention it because it was all heavy enough without adding that whole factor in. I guess he was pretty upset, too, but he just patted my semi-curled hair and bought me a lot of food.

I guess the gist of it is that Mom made some enemies with that last op, and while they may not be targeting me or Dad or her specifically, they're definitely looking for something - information, buried treasure, revenge, I don't know.

Gibbs wants twenty-four hour protection.

Mom's not arguing, because apparently my safety is some kind of priority or something.

Bright side? Dad's my protection detail for the weekend, so basically we just get to chill around the house.

Bad side? I'm literally gonna have to take McUncle Probie to school with me on Monday and have him casually tail me while Tarynn makes jokes about McLassie and McSandy and McFollow-the-leader.

These are nicknames suggested by Dad. He texted her them and promised he'd pay her or something if she sprinkled them about in her conversation.

She has since followed up with McTracker-Jacker, McTailgate, and McDuckling.

Dad thinks she's hilarious. They're actually like texting back and forth. On my phone. And Mom's not intervening, because she's all stupidly guilt-ridden or mad at me for breaking her curling iron or something.

Seriously. Kill me.

On a happier note, Dad promised that he will write a note to ensure I don't have to finish the Physical Exam in gym on Monday, citing that I've more than proved my strength by wisely barricading a door with our stainless steel refrigerator.

It took the combined efforts of me, Mom, and Dad to get it back into the kitchen where it belongs. We're still not sure how I summoned enough strength to move it there.

All I know is I need to go change my bags of peas.

_Peas _out.

. . . That was so bad, omg. *cringes* Sorry.

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><p><strong>I like this chapter, as I said. I'm in a good mood because I'm listening to my weird mix of Disney music, Glee covers, Maroon 5, and show tunes and my homework's done and also... chocolate. <strong>

**Also, Ziva's curly hair is perpetually making my life :) **

**Review, please, guys! Tell me what you'd like to see more of and less of! Favorite lines? Do you like where I'm taking the plot? Was the format more annoying than fun? Lemme know puh-lease!**

**:) ~ Styx**


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